' 


\ 


The  Interloper 


The  Interloper 


By 

Violet     Jacob 

(Mrs.  Arthur  Jacob) 

Author  of  '  The  Sheep-Stealers ' 


NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1904. 


Copyright,  1904,  by 

Violet  Jacob 
Published,  August,  1904 


TO 
AN   UNDYING   MEMORY 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 

BEFORE  proceeding  with  this  story  I  must  apologise 
for  a  striking  inaccuracy  which  it  contains.  I  have 
represented  the  educated  characters  as  speaking,  but  for 
certain  turns  of  phrase,  the  ordinary  English  which  is 
now  universal.  But,  in  Scotland,  in  the  very  early  nine- 
teenth century,  gentle  and  simple  alike  kept  a  national 
distinction  of  language,  and  remnants  of  it  lingered  in 
the  conversation,  as  I  remember  it,  of  the  two  venerable 
and  unique  old  ladies  from  whom  the  characters  of  Miss 
Hersey  Robertson  and  her  sister  are  taken.  They  called 
it  "Court  Scots." 

For  the  assistance  of  that  tender  person,  the  General 
Reader,  I  have  ignored  it. 

V.  J. 

1904. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 


CHAPTER 

I.    THE    HEIR 


i 

II.    AT    GARVIEKIRK            -            -            -            -  17 

III.  FRIENDSHIP         -           -           -           -  28 

IV.  JIMMY         -  -  41 
V.    THE    STRIFE    OF    TONGUES  -  54 

VI.    THE    DOVECOTE    OF    MORPHIE       -  64 

VII.    THE    LOOKING-GLASS  -  79 

VIII.    THE    HOUSE    IN    THE    CLOSE  88 

IX.    ON    FOOT    AND    ON    WHEELS  -  98 

x.  KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE  -  108 

XI.    THE    MOUSE    AND    THE    LION          -  -  119 

XII.    GRANNY    TAKES    A    STRONG    ATTITUDE  -  125 

XIII.  PLAIN    SPEAKING          -  -  136 

XIV.  STORM    AND    BROWN    SILK  -  149 
XV.    THE    THIRD    VOICE       -                                     -  159 

XVI.    BETWEEN    LADY    ELIZA    AND    CECILIA  -  170 

XVII.    CECILIA    PAYS    HER    DEBTS  -  179 

XVIII.    THE    BOX    WITH    THE    LAUREL-WREATH  -  1 88 

[ix] 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  II 


CHAPTER 

XIX.    SIX    MONTHS 


XX.    ROCKET      -                         -            -            ...  206 

XXI.    THE    BROKEN    LINK                                           -  -  217 

XXII.    CECILIA    SEES    THE    WILD    GEESE            -  -  228 

XXIII.    AN    EMPTY    HOUSE       -  -  238 

XXIV.    A    ROYAL    VISIT  -  248 

XXV.    MRS.    SOMERVILLE    HAS    SCRUPLES         -  -  256 

XXVI.    ALEXANDER    BARCLAY    DOES    HIS    BEST  -  266 

XXVII.    THE    SKY    FALLS    ON    GILBERT      -  -  272 

XXVIII.    AGNETA    ON    THE    UNEXPECTED  -  285 

XXIX.    THE    QUEEN    OF    THE    CADGERS    TAKES    THE 

ROAD      -  -  292 

XXX.    MORPHIE    KIRK              -  -  304 

EPILOGUE      -            -           -           -           -  -317 


The   Interloper 


THE  INTERLOPER 
BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  I 

THE    HEIR 

HALF-WAY  up  the  east  coast  of  Scotland  the  estuary  of 
the  North  Lour  cuts  a  wide  cleft  in  an  edge  of  the  Low- 
lands and  flows  into  the  North  Sea  among  the  sands  and 
salmon-nets. 

The  river  winds  in  large  curves  through  the  shingles 
and  green  patches  where  cattle  graze,  overhung  by 
woods  of  beech  and  birch,  and  pursuing  its  course  through 
a  country  in  full  cultivation — a  country  of  large  fields 
where  rolling  woods,  purple  in  the  shadow,  stretch  north 
toward  the  blue  Grampians. 

A  bridge  of  eight  arches  spans  the  water  before  it  runs 
out  to  sea,  the  bank  on  its  further  side  rising  into  a  line 
of  plow-fields  crowning  the  cliffs,  where  flights  of  gulls 
follow  the  plowman  and  hover  in  his  track  over  the 
upturned  earth.  As  the  turnpike  runs  down  to  the 
bridge,  it  curls  round  the  policies  of  a  harled  white  house 
which  has  stood  for  some  two  hundred  years  a  little  way 
in  from  the  road,  a  tall  house  with  dead-looking  win- 
dows and  slates  on  which  the  lichen  has  fastened.  A 
clump  of  beech-trees  presses  round  it  on  two  sides,  and, 
in  their  bare  branches,  rooks'  nests  make  patches  against 
the  late  autumn  skies. 

Inside  the  mansion  of  Whanland — for  such  is  its  name 
— on  a  December  afternoon  in  the  first  year  of  the  nine- 


4  THE  INTERLOPER 

teenth  century,  two  men  were  talking  in  the  fading  light. 
The  room  which  they  occupied  was  panelled  with  wood, 
polished  and  somewhat  light-coloured,  and  had  two 
arched  alcoves,  one  on  either  side  of  the  chimney-piece. 
These  were  filled  with  books  whose  goodly  backs  gave  a 
proper  solemnity  to  the  place.  The  windows  were  nar- 
row and  high,  and  looked  out  to  the  beeches.  A  faint 
sound  of  the  sea  came  droning  in  from  the  sand-hills 
which  flanked  the  shore,  and  were  distant  but  the  space 
of  a  few  fields. 

The  elder  of  the  two  men  was  a  person  who  had  reached 
that  convenient  time  of  life  when  a  gentleman  may 
attend  to  his  creature  comforts  without  the  risk  of  being 
blamed  for  it.  He  was  well  dressed  and  his  face  was  free 
from  any  obvious  fault.  He  produced,  indeed,  a  worse 
effect  than  his  merits  warranted,  for  his  hair,  which  had 
the  misfortune  to  look  as  though  it  were  dyed,  was,  in 
reality,  of  a  natural  colour.  Nothing  in  his  appearance 
hinted  at  the  fact  that  he  was  the  family  lawyer — or 
"man  of  business,"  as  it  is  called  in  Scotland — of  the 
young  man  who  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  nor  did  his 
manner  suggest  that  they  had  met  that  day  for  the 
first  time. 

He  sat  looking  up  at  Gilbert  Speid*  with  considerable 
interest.  Though  he  was  not  one  to  whom  the  finer 
details  of  another's  personality  were  apparent,  he  was 
yet  observant  in  the  commoner  way.  It  did  not  escape 
him  that  his  companion  was  shy,  but  he  did  not  suspect 
that  it  was  with  the  shyness  of  one  who,  though  well 
accustomed  to  the  company  of  his  kind,  had  no  inti- 
macies. A  few  hours  ago,  when  starting  to  meet  him  at 
Whanland,  he  had  told  himself  that  his  task  would  be 
easy,  and  he  meant  to  be  friendly,  both  from  inclination 
and  policy,  with  the  strange  laird,  who  was  a  stranger  to 
his  inheritance.  But  though  he  had  been  received  with 
politeness  a  little  different  from  the  amenity  of  any  one 
*Pronounced  Speed 


THE  HEIR  5 

he  had  known  before,  he  felt  that  he  was  still  far  from  the 
defenses  of  the  young  man's  mind.  As  to  Gilbert's  out- 
ward appearance,  though  it  could  hardly  be  called  hand- 
some, the  lawyer  was  inclined  to  admire  it.  He  was 
rather  tall,  and  had  a  manner  of  carrying  himself  which 
was  noticeable,  not  from  affectation,  but  because  he  was 
a  very  finished  swordsman,  and  had  a  precision  of  gesture 
and  movement  not  entirely  common.  He  did  not  speak 
with  the  same  intonation  as  the  gentry  with  whom  it  was 
Alexander  Barclay's  happiness  to  be  acquainted,  pro- 
fessionally or  otherwise,  for,  though  a  Scot  on  both  sides 
of  his  family,  he  had  spent  most  of  his  youth  abroad,  and 
principally  in  Spain.  His  head  was  extremely  well  set 
and  his  face  gave  an  impression  of  bone — well-balanced 
bone ;  it  was  a  face  rather  heavy  and  singularly  impas- 
sive, though  the  eyes  looked  out  with  an  extraordinary 
curiosity  on  life.  It  seemed,  to  judge  from  them,  as 
though  he  were  always  on  the  verge  of  speaking,  and 
Barclay  caught  himself  pausing  once  or  twice  for  the 
expected  words.  But  they  seldom  came  and  Gilbert's 
mouth  remained  closed,  less  from  determination  to  silence 
than  from  settled  habit. 

It  was  in  the  forenoon  that  Gilbert  Speid  had  arrived  at 
Whanland  to  find  Barclay  awaiting  him  on  the  doorstep; 
and  the  two  men  had  walked  round  the  house  and  garden 
and  under  the  beech-trees,  stopping  at  points  from  which 
there  was  any  view  to  be  had  over  the  surrounding  coun- 
try. They  had  strolled  up  a  field  parallel  with  the  road 
which  ran  from  the  nearest  town  of  Kaims  to  join  the 
highway  at  the  bridge.  There  Gilbert  had  taken  in  every 
detail,  standing  at  an  angle  of  a  fence  and  looking  down 
on  the  river  as  it  wound  from  the  hazy  distance  of  bare 
woods. 

"And  my  property  ends  here  ?"  he  asked,  turning  from 
the  fascinating  scene  to  his  companion. 

"At  the  bend  of  the  Lour,  Mr.  Speid;  just  where  you 
see  the  white  cottage." 


6  THE  INTERLOPER 

"I  am  glad  that  some  of  that  river  is  mine,"  said  Gil- 
bert, after  a  long  pause. 

Barclay  laughed  with  great  heartiness,  and  rubbed 
his  hands  one  over  the  other. 

"Very  satisfactory,"  he  said,  as  they  went  on — "an 
excellent  state  of  things." 

When  they  returned  to  the  house  they  found  a  stack 
of  papers  which  the  lawyer  had  brought  to  be  examined, 
and  Speid,  though  a  little  oppressed  by  the  load  of  dor- 
mant responsibility  it  represented,  sat  gravely  down, 
determined  to  do  all  that  was  expected  of  him.  It  was 
past  three  o'clock  when  Barclay  pulled  out  his  watch  and 
inquired  when  he  had  breakfasted,  for  his  own  sensations 
were  reminding  him  that  he  himself  had  done  so  at  a  very 
early  hour. 

Gilbert  went  to  the  bell,  but  as  he  stood  with  the  rope 
in  his  hand,  he  remembered  that  he  had  no  idea  of  the 
resources  of  the  house,  and  did  not  even  know  whether 
there  were  any  available  servant  whose  duty  it  was  to 
answer  it.  His  companion  sat  looking  at  him  with  a  half- 
smile,  and  he  coloured  as  he  saw  it. 

When  the  door  opened  a  person  peered  in  whom  he 
dimly  recollected  seeing  on  his  arrival  in  the  group 
which  had  gathered  to  unload  his  post-chaise.  He  was  a 
small,  elderly  man,  whose  large  head  shone  with  polished 
baldness.  He  was  pale,  and  had  the  pose  and  expression 
we  are  accustomed  to  connect — perhaps  unjustly — with 
field-preachers,  and  his  rounded  brow  hung  like  the  eaves 
of  a  house  over  a  mild  but  impudent  eye.  He  was  the 
type  of  face  to  be  seen  bawling  over  a  psalm-book  at 
some  sensational  religious  meeting,  a  face  not  to  be 
regarded  too  long  nor  too  earnestly,  lest  its  owner  should 
be  spurred  by  the  look  into  some  insolent  familiarity. 
He  stood  on  the  threshold  looking  from  Speid  to 
Barclay,  as  though  uncertain  which  of  the  two  he 
should  address. 

It  took  Gilbert  a  minute  to  think  of  what  he  had 


THE  HEIR  7 

wanted ;  for  he  was  accustomed  to  the  well-trained  ser- 
vice of  his  father's  house,  and  the  newcomer  matched 
nothing  that  had  a  place  in  his  experience. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  the  man  at  the  door. 

"Is  there  any  dinner — anything  that  we  can  have  to 
eat?  You  must  forgive  me,  sir;  but  you  see  how  it  is. 
I  am  strange  here,  and  I  foolishly  sent  no  orders." 

"I  engaged  a  cook  for  you,  and  it  is  hardly  possible 
that  she  has  made  no  preparation.  Surely  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  kitchen,  Macquean?" 

"I'll  away  down  an'  see,"  said  the  man,  disappearing. 

"Who  is  that?"  asked  Gilbert,  to  whom  the  loss  of  a 
dinner  seemed  less  extraordinary  than  the  possession  of 
such  a  servant. 

"His  name  is  Mungo  Macquean.  He  has  had  charge 
of  the  house  for  a  great  part  of  the  time  that  it  has  stood 
empty.  He  is  a  good  creature,  Mr.  Speid,  though  un- 
couth— very  uncouth." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened  again  to  admit  Mac- 
quean's  head. 

"There's  a  chicken  she'll  roast  to  ye,  an*  there's  brose. 
An'  a'm  to  tell  her,  are  ye  for  pancakes  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly,"  said  Gilbert.  "Mr.  Barclay,  when 
shall  it  be?" 

"The  sooner  the  better,  I  think,"  said  the  other  hope- 
fully. 

"Then  we  will  dine  at  once,"  said  Gilbert. 

Macquean's  mouth  widened  and  he  stared  at  his  mas- 
ter. 

"You'll  get  it  at  five,"  he  said,  as  he  withdrew  his 
head. 

The  lawyer's  face  fell. 

"I  suppose  it  cannot  be  ready  before  then,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh. 

The  two  drew  up  rather  disconsolately  to  the  fireside. 
The  younger  man's  eyes  wandered  round  the  room  and 
lit  upon  one  of  those  oil-paintings  typical  of  the  time, 


8  THE  INTERLOPER 

representing  a  coach-horse,  dock-tailed,  round-barrelled, 
and  with  a  wonderfully  long  rein. 

"That  is  the  only  picture  I  have  noticed  in  the  house," 
he  observed.  "Are  there  no  more — no  portraits,  I 
mean?" 

"To  be  sure  there  are,"  replied  Barclay,  "but  they 
have  been  put  in  the  garret,  which  we  forgot  to  visit  in 
our  walk  round.  We  will  go  up  and  see  them  if  you 
wish.  They  are  handsomely  framed  and  will  make  a 
suitable  show  when  we  get  them  up  on  the  walls." 

The  garret  was  approached  by  a  steep  wooden  stair, 
and,  as  they  stood  among  the  strange  collection  it  con- 
tained in  the  way  of  furniture  and  cobwebs,  Speid  saw 
that  the  one  vacant  space  of  wall  supported  a  row  of 
pictures,  which  stood  on  the  floor  like  culprits,  their  faces 
to  the  wainscot.  Barclay  began  to  turn  them  round.  It 
irked  the  young  man  to  see  his  fat  hands  twisting  the 
canvases  about  and  flicking  the  dust  from  the  row  of 
faces  which  he  regarded  with  a  curious  stirring  of  feeling. 
Nothing  passed  lightly  over  Gilbert. 

He  was  relieved  when  his  companion,  whose  heart  was 
in  the  kitchen,  and  who  was  looking  with  some  petulance 
at  the  dust  which  had  fallen  on  his  coat  from  the  beams 
above,  proposed  to  go  down  and  push  forward  the  prepa- 
rations for  dinner. 

Speid  stood  absorbed  before  the  line  of  vanished  per- 
sonalities which  had  helped  to  determine  his  existence, 
and  they  returned  his  look  with  all  the  intelligent  and 
self-conscious  gravity  of  eighteenth-century  portraiture. 
Only  one  in  the  row  differed  in  character  from  the  others, 
and  he  took  up  the  picture  and  carried  it  to  the  light. 
It  represented  a  lady  whose  figure  was  cut  by  the  oval 
frame  just  below  the  waist.  Her  hands  were  crossed 
in  front  of  her,  and  her  elbows  brought  into  line  with  her 
sides,  as  were  those  of  the  other  Speid  ancestresses; 
there  was  something  straight  and  virginal  in  her  pose. 
Never  had  Gilbert  seen  such  conventionality  of  attitude 


THE  HEIR  9 

joined  to  so  much  levity  of  expression.  She  wore  a 
mountain  of  chestnut  hair  piled  high  on  her  head  and 
curling  down  one  side  of  her  neck.  Her  open  bodice 
of  warm  cream  colour  suggested  a  bust  rather  fuller  than 
might  be  expected  from  the  youthful  and  upright  stiff- 
ness of  her  carriage,  and  over  her  arm  hung  an  India 
muslin  spotted  scarf,  which  had  apparently  slipped 
down  round  her  waist.  Her  eyes  were  soft  in  shade  and 
hard  in  actual  glance,  bold,  bright,  scornful,  under 
strongly  marked  brows.  The  mouth  was  very  red  and 
the  upper  lip  fine ;  the  lower  lip  protruded  and  drooped 
a  little  in  the  middle.  Her  head  was  half  turned  to  meet 
the  spectator. 

Her  appearance  interested  him,  and  he  searched  the 
canvas  for  an  inscription.  Turning  it  round,  he  saw  a 
paper  stuck  upon  the  back  and  covered  with  writing: 
"  Clementina  Speid,  daughter  of  John  Lauder,  Esq.,  of 
Netherkails,  and  Marie  La  Vallance,  his  wife.  1767." 

The  lady  was  his  mother;  and  the  portrait  had  been 
painted  just  after  her  marriage,  three  years  before  his 
own  birth. 

Never  in  his  life  had  he  seen  any  likeness  of  her.  His 
father  had  not  once  mentioned  her  name  in  his  hearing, 
and,  as  a  little  boy,  he  had  been  given  by  his  nurses  to 
understand  that  she  existed  somewhere  in  that  mys- 
terious and  enormous  category  of  things  about  which 
well-brought-up  children  were  not  supposed  to  inquire. 
There  was  a  certain  fitness  in  thus  meeting  her  unknown 
face  as  he  entered  Whanland  for  the  first  time  since  he 
left  it  in  the  early  months  of  his  infancy.  She  had  been 
here  all  the  time,  waiting  for  him  in  the  dust  and  dark- 
ness. As  he  set  the  picture  against  the  wall  her  eyes 
looked  at  him  with  a  secret  intelligence.  That  he  had 
nothing  to  thank  her  for  was  a  fact  which  he  had  gathered 
as  soon  as  he  grew  old  enough  to  draw  deductions  for 
himself ;  but  all  the  same  he  now  felt  an  unaccountable 
sympathy  with  her,  not  as  his  mother — for  such  a  rela- 


io  THE  INTERLOPER 

tionship  had  never  existed  for  him — but  as  a  human 
being.  He  went  to  the  little  window  under  the  slope  of 
the  roof  and  looked  out  over  the  fields.  On  the  shore 
the  sea  lay,  far  and  sad,  as  if  seen  through  the  wrong  end 
of  a  telescope.  The  even,  dreary  sound  came  through  a 
crack  in  the  two  little  panes  of  glass.  He  turned  back 
to  the  picture,  though  he  could  hardly  see  it  in  the 
strengthening  dusk;  her  personality  seemed  to  pervade 
the  place  with  a  brave,  unavailing  brightness.  It  struck 
him  that,  in  that  game  of  life  which  had  ended  in  her 
death,  there  had  been  her  stake,  too.  But  it  was  a  point 
of  view  which  he  felt  sure  no  other  being  he  had  known 
had  ever  considered. 

Mr.  Barclay's  voice  calling  to  him  on  the  staircase 
brought  him  back  from  the  labyrinth  of  thought.  He 
hurried  out  of  the  garret  to  find  him  on  the  landing, 
rather  short  of  breath  after  his  ascent. 

"The  Misses  Robertson  are  below,  Mr.  Speid;  they 
have  driven  out  from  Kaims  to  bid  you  welcome.  I 
have  left  them  in  the  library." 

"The  Misses  Robertson?" 

"Miss  Hersey  and  Miss  Caroline  Robertson;  your 
cousins.  The  ladies  will  not  be  long  before  they  find 
you  out,  you  see.  They  might  have  allowed  you  a  little 
more  law,  all  the  same.  But  women  are  made  inquisi- 
tive— especially  the  old  ones." 

"I  think  it  vastly  kind,"  said  Speid  shortly.  "I 
remember  now  that  my  father  spoke  of  them." 

As  they  entered  the  library,  two  small  figures  rose 
from  their  chairs  and  came  forward,  one  a  little  in  front 
of  the  other. 

The  sisters  were  both  much  under  middle  height,  and 
dressed  exactly  alike ;  it  was  only  on  their  faces  that  the 
very  great  difference  in  them  was  visible.  There  was 
an  appealing  dignity  in  the  full  acknowledgment  of  her 
seventy  years  which  Miss  Hersey  carried  in  her  person. 
She  had  never  had  the  smallest  pretension  to  either  intel- 


THE  HEIR  ii 

lect  or  attraction,  but  her  plain,  thin  face,  with  its  one 
beauty  of  gray  hair  rolled  high  above  her  forehead,  was 
full  of  a  dignity  innocent,  remote,  and  entirely  natural, 
that  has  gone  out  of  the  modern  world.  Miss  Caroline, 
who  was  slightly  her  senior,  was  frankly  ugly  and  foolish- 
looking;  and  something  fine,  delicate,  and  persuasive 
that  lay  in  her  sister's  countenance  had,  in  hers,  been 
omitted.  Their  only  likeness  was  in  the  benignity  that 
pervaded  them  and  in  the  inevitable  family  resemblance 
that  is  developed  with  age.  The  fashion  of  their  dresses, 
though  in  no  way  grotesque,  had  been  obsolete  for  sev- 
eral years. 

"Welcome,  Mr.  Speid,"  said  Miss  Hersey,  holding  out 
a  gentle,  bony  hand.  "Caroline,  here  is  Mr.  Speid." 

It  was  no  slight  effort  which  the  two  feeble  old  ladies 
had  made  in  coming  to  do  him  honour,  for  they  had 
about  them  the  strangeness  which  hangs  round  very 
aged  people  when  some  unaccustomed  act  takes  them 
out  of  their  own  surroundings,  and  he  longed  to  thank 
them,  or  to  say  something  which  should  express  his  sense 
of  it.  But  Barclay's  proximity  held  him  down.  Their 
greeting  made  him  disagreeably  aware  of  the  lawyer's 
presence;  and  his  incongruity  as  he  stood  behind  him 
was  like  a  cold  draught  blowing  on  his  back.  He  made 
a  hurried  murmur  of  civility,  then,  as  he  glanced  again 
at  Miss  Hersey 's  face,  he  suddenly  set  his  heels  together, 
and,  bending  over  her  hand,  held  it  to  his  lips. 

She  was  old  enough  to  look  as  if  she  had  never  been 
young,  but  seventy  years  do  not  rob  a  woman,  who  has 
ever  been  a  woman,  of  everything;  she  felt  like  a  queen 
as  she  touched  her  kinsman's  bent  head  lightly  with  her 
withered  fingers. 

"Welcome,  Gilbert,"  she  said  again.  " God  bless  you, 
my  dear !" 

"We  knew  your  father,"  said  the  old  lady,  when  chairs 
had  been  brought,  and  she  and  her  sister  installed,  one 
on  either  side  of  the  fireplace. 


12  THE  INTERLOPER 

"We  knew  your  father,"  echoed  Miss  Caroline,  smiling 
vaguely. 

"I  do  not  remember  that  he  was  like  you,"  said  Miss 
Hersey,  "but  he  was  a  very  handsome  man.  He  brought 
your  mother  to  see  us  immediately  after  he  was  married." 

"You'll  have  to  keep  up  the  custom,"  observed  Mr. 
Barclay  jocosely.  "How  soon  are  we  to  look  for  the 
happy  event,  Mr.  Speid?  There  will  be  no  difficulty 
among  the  young  ladies  here,  I'm  thinking." 

"My  cousin  will  do  any  lady  honour  that  he  asks,  Mr. 
Barclay,  and  it  is  likely  he  will  be  particular,"  said  Miss 
Hersey,  drawing  herself  up. 

"  He  should  be  particular,"  said  Miss  Caroline,  catching 
gently  at  the  last  word. 

"Your  mother  was  a  sweet  creature,"  continued  the 
younger  sister.  "He  brought  her  to  our  house.  It  was 
on  a  Sunday  after  the  church  was  out.  I  mind  her  sit- 
ting by  me  on  the  sofy  at  the  window.  You'll  mind  it, 
too,  Caroline." 

"A  sweet  creature  indeed;  a  sweet  creature,"  mur- 
mured Miss  Caroline. 

"She  was  so  pleased  with  the  lilies-of -the -valley  in  the 
garden,  and  I  asked  Robert  Fullarton  to  go  out  and  pull 
some  for  her.  Poor  thing !  it  is  a  sad-like  place  she  is 
buried  in,  Gilbert." 

"I  have  never  seen  it,  ma'am,"  said  Speid. 

"It's  at  Garviekirk.  The  kirkyard  is  on  the  shore, 
away  along  the  sands  from  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Your 
father  wished  it  that  way,  but  I  could  never  under- 
stand it." 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  show  you  the  road  there," 
broke  in  Barclay. 

"It  was  a  bitter  day,"  continued  Miss  Robertson.  "I 
wondered  your  father  did  not  get  his  death  o'  cold  stand- 
ing there  without  his  hat.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  not  even 
to  Robert  Fullarton,  who  was  so  well  acquainted  with 
him.  And  when  the  gentlemen  who  had  come  to  the 


THE  HEIR  13 

burying  arrived  at  the  gate  of  "Whanland,  he  just  bade 
them  a  good -day  and  went  in.  There  was  not  one  that 
was  brought  in  to  take  a  glass  of  wine.  I  never  saw  him 
after;  he  went  to  England." 

While  her  sister  was  speaking  Miss  Caroline  held  her 
peace.  Her  chin  shook  as  she  turned  her  eyes  with  dim 
benevolence  from  one  to  the  other.  At  seventy-two 
she  seemed  ten  years  older  than  Miss  Hersey. 

Gilbert  could  not  but  ask  his  cousins  to  stay  and  dine 
with  him,  and  they  assented  very  readily.  When  at  last 
dinner  was  brought  he  and  Mr.  Barclay  handed  them  to 
the  table.  There  was  enough  and  to  spare  upon  it,  in 
spite  of  Macquean's  doubts;  and  Miss  Hersey,  seated 
beside  him,  was  gently  exultant  in  the  sense  of  kinship. 
It  was  a  strange  party. 

Gilbert,  who  had  never  sat  at  the  head  of  his  own  table 
before,  looked  round  with  a  feeling  of  detachment.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  acting  in  a  play  and  that  his 
three  guests,  whom,  a  f£w  hours  before,  he  had  never 
seen,  were  as  unreal  as  everything  else.  The  environ- 
ment of  this  coming  life  was  closing  in  on  him  and  he 
could  not  meet  its  forces  as  easily  as  a  more  elastic  nature 
would  have  met  them.  He  accepted  change  with  as  little 
equanimity  as  a  woman,  in  spite  of  the  many  changes  of 
his  past,  because  he  knew  that  both  duty  and  tempera- 
ment would  compel  him  to  take  up  life,  and  live  it  with 
every  nerve  alongside  the  lives  running  parallel  with  his 
own.  He  could  see  that  he  had  pleased  Miss  Hersey  and 
he  was  glad,  as  he  had  a  respect  for  ties  of  blood  imbibed 
from  the  atmosphere  of  ceremonious  Spain.  He  was 
glad  to  find  something  that  had  definite  connection  with 
himself  and  the  silent  house  he  had  entered;  with  its 
wind-blown  beech-trees  and  the  face  upstairs  in  the  dust 
of  the  garret. 

When  dinner  was  over  the  Misses  Robertson  sent  out 
for  the  hired  coach  and  pair  which  they  had  considered 
indispensable  to  the  occasion.  When  they  had  taken 


i4  THE  INTERLOPER 

their  leave  Gilbert  stood  and  watched  the  lights  of  the 
vehicle  disappearing  down  the  road  to  Kaims.  Their 
departure  relieved  him,  for  their  presence  made  him  dis- 
like Barclay.  Their  extreme  simplicity  might  border 
on  the  absurd,  but  it  made  the  lawyer's  exaggerated 
politeness  and  well-to-do  complacency  look  more  offen- 
sive than  they  actually  were. 

It  was  quite  dark  as  he  turned  back,  and  Barclay, 
who  was  a  man  much  in  request  in  his  own  circle, 
was  anxious  to  get  home  to  the  town,  where  he 
proposed  to  enjoy  a  bottle  with  some  friends.  He 
looked  forward  keenly  to  discussing  the  newcomer 
over  it. 

Before  he  went  to  bed  Speid  strolled  out  into  the 
damp  night.  He  set  his  face  toward  the  sea,  and  the 
small  stir  of  air  there  was  blew  chill  upon  his  cheek. 
Beyond  a  couple  of  fields  a  great  light  was  flaring,  throw- 
ing up  the  blunt  end  of  some  farm  buildings  through 
which  he  had  passed  that  morning  in  his  walk  with  Bar- 
clay. Figures  were  flitting  across  the  shine;  and  the 
hum  of  human  voices  rose  above  a  faint  roar  that  was 
coming  in  from  the  waste  of  sea  beyond  the  sand-hills. 
He  strode  across  the  paling,  and  made  toward  the  light. 
When  he  reached  the  place  he  found  that  a  bonfire  was 
shooting  bravely  upward,  and  the  glow  which  it  threw 
on  the  walls  of  the  whitewashed  dwelling-house  was 
turning  it  into  a  rosy  pink.  The  black  forms  of  twenty 
or  thirty  persons,  men  and  women — the  former  much 
in  the  majority — were  crowding  and  gyrating  round  the 
blaze.  Some  were  feeding  it  with  logs  and  stacks  of 
brushwood ;  a  few  of  the  younger  ones  were  dancing  and 
posturing  solemnly;  and  one,  who  had  made  a  discreet 
retirement  from  the  burning  mass,  was  sitting  in  an 
open  doorway  with  an  empty  bottle  on  the  threshold 
beside  him.  Some  children  looked  down  on  the  throng 
from  an  upper  window  of  the  house.  The  revel  was 
apparently  in  an  advanced  stage. 


THE  HEIR  15 

The  noise  was  tremendous.  Under  cover  of  it,  and  of 
the  deep  shadows  thrown  by  the  bonfire,  Gilbert  slipped 
into  a  dark  angle  and  stood  to  watch  the  scene.  The 
men  were  the  principal  dancers,  and  a  knot  of  heavy 
carter-lads  were  shuffling  opposite  to  each  other  in  a  kind 
of  sentimental  abandonment.  Each  had  one  hand  on 
his  hip  and  one  held  conscientiously  aloft.  Now  and  then 
they  turned  round  with  the  slow  motion  of  joints  on  the 
spit.  One  was  singing  gutturally  in  time  to  his  feet; 
but  his  words  were  unintelligible  to  Speid. 

He  soon  discovered  that  the  rejoicings  were  in  honour 
of  his  own  arrival,  and  the  knowledge  made  him  the  more 
inclined  to  keep  his  hiding-place.  He  could  see  Mac- 
quean  raking  at  the  pile,  the  flame  playing  over  his  round 
forehead  and  unrefined  face.  He  looked  greatly  un- 
suited  to  the  occasion,  as  he  did  to  any  outdoor  event. 

All  at  once  a  little  wizened  woman  looked  in  his  own 
direction. 

" Yonder 's  him!"  she  cried,  as  she  extended  a  direct 
forefinger  on  his  shelter. 

A  shout  rose  from  the  revellers.  Even  the  man  in  the 
doorway  turned  his  head,  a  thing  he  had  not  been  able  to 
do  for  some  time. 

"  Heh !  the  laird  !  the  laird !" 

"Yon's  him.  Come  awa',  laird,  an'  let's  get  a  sicht  o' 
ye!" 

"Here's  to  ye,  laird!" 

"  Laird  !  laird  !  What'll  I  get  if  I  run  through  the  fire  ?" 

"  Ye'll  get  a  pair  o'  burned  boots !"  roared  the  man  in 
the  doorway  with  sudden  warmth. 

Speid  came  out  from  the  shadow.  He  had  not  bar- 
gained for  this.  Silence  fell  at  once  upon  the  assembly, 
and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  do  well  to  say  a 
few  words  to  these,  his  new  dependents.  He  paused, 
not  knowing  how  to  address  them. 

"Friends,"  he  began  at  last,  "I  see  that  you  mean 
this — this  display  as  a  kind  welcome  to  me." 


i6  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Just  that,"  observed  a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

"I  know  very  little  about  Whanland,  and  I  do  not 
even  know  your  names.  But  I  shall  hope  to.be  friendly 
with  you  all.  I  mean  to  live  here  and  to  try  my  best  to 
do  well  by  everybody.  I  hope  I  have  your  good  wishes." 

"Ye'll  hae  that!"  cried  the  voice;  and  a  man,  far 
gone  in  intoxication,  who  had  absently  filled  the  tin 
mug  he  had  drained  with  small  stones,  rattled  it  in 
accompaniment  to  the  approving  noise  which  followed 
these  words. 

"  I  thank  you  all,"  said  the  young  man,  as  it  subsided. 

Then  he  turned  and  went  up  the  fields  to  the  house. 

And  that  was  how  Gilbert  Speid  came  back  to  Whan- 
land. 


CHAPTER  H 

AT     GARVI E  KI RK 

THE  woman  who  lay  in  her  grave  by  the  sands  had 
rested  there  for  nearly  thirty  years  when  her  son  stood 
in  the  grass  to  read  her  name  and  the  date  of  her  death. 
The  place  had  been  disused  as  a  burial-ground;  and  it 
cost  Gilbert  some  trouble  to  find  the  corner  in  which 
Clementina  Speid's  passionate  heart  had  mixed  with 
the  dust  from  which,  we  are  told,  we  emanate.  The 
moss  and  damp  had  done  their  best  to  help  on  the 
oblivion  lying  in  wait  for  us  all,  and  it  was  only  after 
half  an  hour  of  careful  scraping  that  he  had  spelt  out  the 
letters  on  the  stone.  There  was  little  to  read:  her 
name  and  the  day  she  died — October  5,  1770 — and  her 
age.  It  was  twenty-nine;  just  a  year  short  of  his  own. 
Underneath  was  cut:  "Thus  have  they  rewarded  me 
evil  for  good,  and  hatred  for  my  good-will  (Ps.  cix.  4)." 

He  stood  at  her  feet,  his  chin  in  his  hand,  and  the  salt 
wind  blowing  in  his  hair.  The  smell  of  tar  came  up 
from  the  nets  spread  on  the  shore  to  windward  of 
him,  and  a  gull  flitted  shrieking  from  the  line  of  cliff 
above. 

He  looked  up. 

He  had  not  heard  the  tread  of  nearing  hoofs,  for  the 
sea  sound  swallowed  everything  in  its  enveloping  mur- 
mur, and  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  a  person, 
from  the  outer  side  of  the  graveyard  wall,  was  regarding 
him  earnestly.  He  could  not  imagine  how  she  had 
arrived  at  the  place;  for  the  strip  of  flat  land  which 
contained  this  burying-ground  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs 

17 


i8  THE  INTERLOPER 

appeared  to  him  to  end  in  the  promontory  standing 
out  into  the  ocean  a  half-mile  further  east.  The  many 
little  tracks  and  ravines  which  cut  downward  to  the 
coast,  and  by  one  of  which  the  rider  had  descended  to 
ride  along  the  bents,  were  unknown  to  him.  He  had 
not  expected  to  see  any  one,  and  he  was  rather  embar- 
rassed at  meeting  the  eyes  of  the  middle-aged  gentle- 
woman who  sat  on  horseback  before  him.  She  was 
remarkable  enough  to  inspire  any  one  with  a  feeling  of 
interest,  though  not  from  beauty,  for  her  round,  plain 
face  was  lined  and  toughened  by  the  weather,  and  her 
shrewd  and  comprehensive  glance  seemed  more  suited 
to  a  man's  than  to  a  woman's  countenance.  A  short 
red  wig  of  indifferent  fit  protruded  from  under  a  low- 
crowned  beaver;  and  the  cord  and  tassels,  with  which 
existing  taste  encircled  riding-hats,  nodded  over  one  side 
of  the  brim  at  each  movement  of  the  head  below.  A 
buff  waistcoat,  short  even  in  those  days  of  short  waists, 
covered  a  figure  which  in  youth  could  never  have  been 
graceful,  and  the  lady's  high-collared  coat  and  riding- 
skirt  of  plum  colour  were  shabby  with  the  varied  weather 
of  many  years.  The  only  superfine  things  about  her 
were  her  gloves,  which  were  of  the  most  expensive 
make,  the  mare  she  rode,  and  an  intangible  air  which 
pervaded  her,  drowning  her  homeliness  in  its  distinction. 

Seeing  that  Gilbert  was  aware  of  her  proximity,  she 
moved  on;  not  as  though  she  felt  concern  for  the  open 
manner  of  her  regard,  but  as  if  she  had  seen  all  she 
wished  to  see.  As  she  went  forward  he  was  struck  with 
admiration  of  the  mare,  for  she  was  a  picture  of  breed- 
ing ;  and  whoever  groomed  her  was  a  man  to  be  respected, 
her  contrast  to  the  shabbiness  of  her  rider  was  marked, 
the  faded  folds  of  the  plum-coloured  skirt  showing 
against  her  loins  like  the  garment  of  a  scarecrow  laid 
over  satin. 

She  was  a  dark  bay  with  black  points,  short-legged, 
deep-girthed;  her  little  ears  were  cocked  as  she  picked 


AT  GARVIEKIRK  19 

her  way  through  the  grass  into  the  sandy  track  which 
led  back  in  the  direction  of  the  Lour's  mouth  and  the 
bridge.  The  lady,  despite  her  dumpish  figure,  was  a 
horsewoman,  a  fact  that  he  noticed  with  interest  as  he 
turned  from  the  mound,  and,  stepping  through  a  breach 
in  the  wall,  took  his  way  homeward  in  the  wake  of  the 
stranger. 

It  was  a  full  fortnight  since  he  had  come  to  Whan- 
land.  With  the  exception  of  Barclay  and  the  Misses 
Robertson,  he  had  heard  little  and  seen  nothing  of  his 
neighbours,  for  his  time  had  been  filled  by  business  mat- 
ters. He  knew  his  own  servants  by  sight,  and  that  was 
all;  but,  with  regard  to  their  functions,  he  was  com- 
pletely in  the  dark,  and  glad  enough  to  have  Macquean 
to  interpret  domestic  life  to  him.  He  had  made  some 
progress  in  the  understanding  of  his  speech,  which  he 
found  an  easier  matter  to  be  even  with  than  his  charac- 
ter; and  he  was  getting  over  the  inclination  either  to 
laugh  or  to  be  angry  which  he  had  felt  on  first  seeing 
him;  also,  it  was  dawning  on  him  that,  in  the  astound- 
ing country  he  was  to  inhabit,  it  was  possible  to  com- 
bine decent  intentions  with  a  mode  of  bearing  and 
address  bordering  on  grossness. 

As  he  went  along  and  watched  the  rider  in  front,  he 
could  not  guess  at  her  identity,  having  nothing  to  give 
him  the  smallest  clue  to  it ;  he  was  a  good  deal  attracted 
by  her  original  appearance,  and  was  thinking  that  he 
would  ask  Miss  Robertson,  when  he  next  waited  on  her, 
to  enlighten  him,  when  she  put  the  mare  to  a  trot  and 
soon  disappeared  round  an  angle  of  the  cliff. 

The  clouds  were  low;  and  the  gleam  of  sunshine 
which  had  enlivened  the  day  was  merging  itself  into  a 
general  expectation  of  coming  wet.  Gilbert  buttoned 
up  his  coat  and  put  his  best  foot  forward,  with  the 
exhilaration  of  a  man  who  feels  the  youth  in  his  veins 
warring  pleasantly  with  outward  circumstances.  He 
was  young  and  strong;  the  fascination  of  the  place  he 


20  THE  INTERLOPER 

had  just  left,  and  the  curious  readiness  of  his  rather 
complicated  mind  to  dwell  on  it,  and  on  the  past  of 
which  it  spoke,  ran  up,  so  to  speak,  against  the  active 
perfection  of  his  body.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  carried 
it,  swinging  along  with  his  small  head  bare,  and  taking 
deep  breaths  of  the  healthy  salt  which  blew  to  him  over 
miles  of  open  water  from  Jutland  opposite.  The  horse 
he  had  seen  had  excited  him.  So  far,  he  had  been  kept 
busy  with  the  things  pertaining  to  his  new  position, 
but,  interesting  as  they  were,  it  occurred  to  him  that  he 
was  tired  of  them.  Now  he  could  give  himself  the 
pleasure  of  filling  his  stable.  He  had  never  lacked 
money,  for  his  father  had  made  him  a  respectable  allow- 
ance, but,  now  that  he  was  his  own  master,  with  complete 
control  of  his  finance,  he  would  be  content  with  nothing 
but  the  best. 

He  thought  of  his  two  parents,  one  lying  behind  him 
in  that  God-forgotten  spot  by  the  North  Sea  and  the 
other  under  the  cypresses  in  Granada,  where  he  had 
seen  him  laid  barely  three  months  ago.  It  would  have 
seemed  less  incongruous  had  the  woman  been  left  with 
the  sun  and  orange-trees  and  blue  skies,  and  the  man 
at  the  foot  of  the  impenetrable  cliffs.  But  it  was  the 
initial  trouble:  they  had  been  mismated,  misplaced, 
each  with  the  other,  and  one  with  her  surroundings. 

For  two  centuries  the  Speids  of  Whanland  had  been 
settled  in  this  corner  of  the  Eastern  Lowlands,  and, 
though  the  property  had  diminished  and  was  now 
scarcely  more  than  half  its  original  size,  the  name  carried 
to  initiated  ears  a  suggestion  of  sound  breeding,  good 
physique,  and  unchangeable  custom,  with  a  smack  of 
the  polite  arts  brought  into  the  family  by  a  collateral 
who  had  been  distinguished  as  a  man  of  letters  in  the 
reign  of  George  I.  The  brides  of  the  direct  line  had 
generally  possessed  high  looks,  and  been  selected  from 
those  families  which  once  formed  the  strength  of  pro- 
vincial Scotland,  the  ancient  and  untitled  county  gentry. 


AT  GARVIEKIRK  21 

From  its  ranks  came  the  succession  of  wits,  lawyers, 
divines,  and  men  of  the  King's  service,  which,  though 
known  only  in  a  limited  circle,  formed  a  society  in  the 
Scottish  capital  that  for  brilliancy  of  talent  and  richness 
of  personality  has  never  been  surpassed. 

The  late  laird,  James  Speid,  had  run  contrary  to  the 
family  custom  of  mating  early,  and  was  nearing  forty 
when  he  set  out,  with  no  slight  stir,  for  Netherkails,  in 
the  county  of  Perth,  to  ask  Mr.  Lauder,  a  gentleman 
with  whom  he  had  an  acquaintance,  for  the  hand  of  his 
daughter,  Clementina.  He  had  met  this  lady  at  the 
house  of  a  neighbour  and  decided  to  pay  his  addresses  to 
her ;  for,  besides  having  a  small  fortune — not  enough  to 
allure  a  penniless  man,  but  enough  to  be  useful  to  the 
wife  of  one  of  his  circumstance — she  was  so  attractive  as 
to  disturb  him  very  seriously.  He  found  only  one 
obstacle  to  the  despatch  of  his  business,  which  was  that 
Clementina  herself  was  not  inclined  toward  him,  and 
told  him  so  with  a  civility  that  did  not  allay  his  vexation ; 
and  he  returned  to  Whanland  more  silent  than  ever — for 
he  was  a  stern  man — to  find  the  putting  of  Miss  Lauder 
from  his  mind  a  harder  matter  than  he  had  supposed. 

But,  in  a  few  weeks,  a  letter  came  from  Netherkails, 
not  from  the  lady,  but  from  her  father,  assuring  him 
that  his  daughter  had  altered  her  mind,  and  that,  if  he 
were  still  constant  to  the  devotion  he  had  described, 
there  was  no  impediment  in  his  way.  Mr.  Speid,  whose 
inclination  pointed  like  a  finger-post  to  Netherkails, 
was  now  confronted  by  his  pride,  which  stood,  an  armed 
giant,  straddling  the  road  to  bar  his  progress.  But, 
after  a  stout  tussle  between .  man  and  monster,  the 
wheels  of  the  family  chariot  rolled  over  the  enemy's 
fallen  body ;  and  the  victor,  taking  with  him  in  a  shagreen 
case  a  pearl  necklace  which  had  belonged  to  his  mother, 
brought  back  Clementina,  who  was  wearing  it  upon  her 
lovely  neck. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  history  of  her  change  of 


52  THE  INTERLOPER 

mind,  Mrs.  Speid  accepted  her  responsibilities  with  a 
suitable  face  and  an  apparent  pleasure  in  the  interest 
she  aroused  as  a  bride  of  more  than  common  good  looks. 
Her  coach  was  well  appointed,  her  dresses  of  the  best; 
her  husband,  both  publicly  and  in  private,  was  precise  in 
his  courtesy  and  esteem,  and  there  was  nothing  left  to 
be  desired  but  some  sympathy  of  nature.  At  thirty- 
eight  he  was,  at  heart,  an  elderly  man,  while  his  wife,  at 
twenty-seven,  was  a  very  young  woman.  The  fact 
that  he  never  became  aware  of  the  incongruity  was  the 
rock  on  which  their  ship  went  to  pieces. 

After  three  years  of  marriage  Gilbert  was  born. 
Clementina's  health  had  been  precarious  for  months,  and 
she  all  but  paid  for  the  child's  life  with  her  own.  On 
the  day  that  she  left  her  bed,  a  couch  was  placed  at  the 
window  facing  seaward,  and  she  lay  looking  down  the 
fields  to  the  shore.  No  one  knew  what  occurred,  but, 
that  evening,  there  was  a  great  cry  in  the  house  and  the 
servants,  rushing  up,  met  Mr.  Speid  coming  down  the 
stairs  and  looking  as  if  he  did  not  see  them.  They 
found  their  mistress  in  a  terrible  state  of  excitement  and 
distress  and  carried  her  back  to  her  bed,  where  she 
became  so  ill  that  the  doctor  was  fetched.  By  the  time 
he  arrived  she  was  in  a  delirium;  and,  two  days  after, 
she  died  without  having  recognised  anyone. 

When  the  funeral  was  over  James  Speid  discharged 
his  servants,  gave  orders  for  the  sale  of  his  horses,  shut 
up  his  house,  and  departed  for  England,  taking  the  child 
with  him  under  the  charge  of  a  young  Scotchwoman. 
In  a  short  time  he  crossed  over  to  Belgium,  dismissed 
the  nurse,  and  handed  over  little  Gilbert  to  be  brought 
up  by  a  peasant  woman  near  the  vigilant  eye  of  a  pasteur 
with  whom  he  had  been  friendly  in  former  days.  Being 
an  only  son,  Mr.  Speid  had  none  but  distant  relations, 
and,  as  he  was  not  a  man  of  sociable  character,  there  was 
no  person  who  might  naturally  come  forward  to  take 
the  child.  He  spent  a  year  in  travel,  and  settled  finally 


AT  GARVIEKIRK  23 

in  Spain,  where  the  boy,  when  he  had  reached  his  fifth 
birthday,  joined  him. 

Thus  Gilbert  was  cut  off  from  all  intercourse  with  his 
native  country,  growing  up  with  the  sons  of  a  neighbour- 
ing Spanish  nobleman  as  his  companions.  When,  at 
last,  he  went  to  school  in  England,  he  met  no  one  who 
knew  anything  about  him,  and,  all  mention  of  his 
mother's  name  having  been  strictly  forbidden  at  his 
home,  he  reached  manhood  in  complete  ignorance  of 
everything  connected  with  his  father's  married  life. 
The  servants,  being  foreign,  and  possessing  no  channel 
through  which  they  could  hear  anything  to  explain  the 
prohibition,  made  many  guesses,  and,  from  scraps  of 
their  talk  overheard  by  the  boy,  he  discovered  that  there 
was  some  mystery  connected  with  him.  It  was  a  great 
deal  in  his  mind,  but,  as  he  grew  older,  a  certain  delicacy 
of  feeling  forbade  his  risking  the  discovery  of  anything 
to  the  detriment  of  the  mother  whose  very  likeness  he 
had  never  seen.  His  father,  though  indifferent  to  him, 
endeavoured  to  be  just,  and  was  careful  in  giving  him 
the  obvious  advantages  of  life.  He  grew  up  active  and 
manly,  plunging  with  zest  into  the  interests  and  amuse- 
ments of  his  boyhood's  companions.  He  was  a  good 
horseman,  a  superb  swordsman,  and,  his  natural  gravity 
assimilating  with  something  in  the  Spanish  character,  he 
was  popular.  Mr.  Speid  made  no  demands  upon  his 
affection,  the  two  men  respecting  each  other  without  any 
approach  to  intimacy,  and,  when  the  day  came  on  which 
Gilbert  stood  and  looked  down  at  the  stern,  dead  face, 
though  his  grief  was  almost  impersonal,  he  felt  in  every 
fibre  that  he  owed  him  a  debt  he  could  only  repay  by  the 
immediate  putting  into  effect  of  his  wishes.  Mr.  Speid 
had,  during  his  illness,  informed  him  that  he  was  heir  to 
the  property  of  Whanland,  and  that  he  desired  him  to 
return  to  Scotland  and  devote  himself  conscientiously 
to  it. 

And  so  he  had  come  home,  and  was  now  making  his 


24  THE  INTERLOPER 

way  up  to  the  bridge,  wondering  why  he  had  not  seen 
the  figure  of  the  strange  lady  crossing  it  between  him  and 
the  sky.  She  must  have  turned  and  gone  up  the  road 
leading  from  it  to  the  cliffs  and  the  little  village  of 
Garviekirk,  which  sat  in  the  fields  above  the  churchyard. 

He  looked  at  the  shoe-marks  in  the  mud  as  he  went 
up  the  hill,  following  them  mechanically,  and,  at  the 
top,  they  diverged,  as  he  had  expected,  from  his  home- 
ward direction.  As  he  stopped  half-way  and  glanced 
over  the  bridge  parapet  into  the  swirling  water  of  the 
Lour  slipping  past  the  masonry,  the  smart  beat  of  hoofs 
broke  on  his  ear.  The  mare  was  coming  down  toward 
him  at  a  canter,  the  saddle  empty,  the  stirrup-leather 
flying  outwards,  the  water  splashing  up  as  she  went 
through  the  puddles.  Something  inconsequent  and 
half-hearted  in  her  pace  showed  that  whatever  fright 
had  started  her  had  given  way  to  a  capricious  pleasure 
in  the  unusual;  and  the  hollow  sound  of  her  own  tread 
on  the  bridge  made  her  buck  light-heartedly. 

Gilbert  stepped  out  into  the  middle  of  the  way  and 
held  up  his  walking-stick.  She  swerved,  stopped 
suddenly  with  her  fore-feet  well  in  front  of  her,  and  was 
going  to  turn  when  he  sprang  at  the  reins.  As  he 
grasped  them  she  reared  up,  but  only  as  a  protest  against 
interference,  for  she  came  down  as  quietly  as  if  she  had 
done  nothing  at  which  any  one  could  take  offense.  She 
had  evidently  fallen,  for  the  bit  was  bent  and  all  her 
side  plastered  with  mud.  He  plucked  a  handful  of 
grass  and  cleaned  down  the  saddle  before  starting  with 
her  towards  Garviekirk.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen, 
but  there  stood,  in  the  distance,  a  roadside  cottage  whose 
inmates  might,  he  thought,  know  something  of  the 
accident.  He  hurried  forward. 

The  cottage-door  opened  on  the  side-path,  and,  as  he 
drew  near,  he  saw  the  mare's  owner  standing  on  the 
threshold,  watching  his  approach.  She  had  been 
original-looking  on  horseback  and  she  was  now  a  hundred 


AT  GARVIEKIRK  25 

times  more  so;  for  the  traces  of  her  fall  were  evident, 
and,  on  one  side,  she  was  coated  with  mud  from  head  to 
heel.  Her  wig  was  askew,  her  arms  akimbo,  and  her 
hat,  which  she  held  in, her  hand,  was  battered  out  of 
shape.  She  stood  framed  by  the  lintel,  her  feet  set 
wide  apart;  as  she  contemplated  Gilbert  and  the  mare, 
she  kept  up  a  loud  conversation  with  an  unseen  person 
inside  the  cottage. 

"Nonsense,  woman!"  she  was  exclaiming  as  he 
stopped  a  few  paces  from  her.  "Come  out  and  hold 
her  while  this  gentleman  helps  me  to  mount.  Sir,  I  am 
much  obliged  to  you." 

As  she  spoke  she  walked  round  the  animal  in  a  critical 
search  for  damage. 

"She  is  quite  sound,  madam,"  said  Gilbert.  "I 
trotted  her  as  I  came  to  make  sure  of  it.  I  hope  you  are 
not  hurt  yourself." 

"Thanky,  no,"  she  replied,  rather  absently. 

He  laid  the  reins  on  the  mare's  neck.  The  lady  threw 
an  impatient  look  at  the  house. 

"Am  I  to  be  kept  waiting  all  day,  Granny  Stirk?" 
she  cried. 

There  was  a  sound  of  pushing  and  scuffling,  and  an  old 
woman  carrying  a  clumsy  wooden  chair  filled  the  door- 
way. She  was  short  and  thin,  and  had  the  remains  of 
the  most  marked  good  looks. 

The  lady  broke  into  a  torrent  of  speech. 

"What  do  I  want  with  that ?  Do  you  suppose  I  have 
come  to  such  a  pass  that  I  cannot  mount  my  horse 
without  four  wooden  legs  to  help  me  up  ?  Put  it  down, 
you  old  fool,  and  come  here  as  I  bid  you — do  you  hear  ? " 

Granny  Stirk  advanced  steadily  with  the  chair  in  front 
of  her.  She  might  have  looked  as  though  protecting 
herself  with  it  had  her  expression  been  less  decided. 

"Put  it  down,  I  tell  you.  God  bless  me,  am  I  a 
cripple?  Leave  her  head,  sir — she  will  stand — and  do 
me  the  favour  to  mount  me." 


26  THE  INTERLOPER 

Gilbert  complied,  and,  putting  his  hand  under  the 
stranger's  splashed  boot,  tossed  her  easily  into  the 
saddle.  She  sat  a  moment  gathering  up  the  reins  and 
settling  her  skirt;  then,  with  a  hurried  word  of  thanks, 
she  trotted  off,  standing  up  in  her  stirrup  as  she  went 
to  look  over  at  the  mare's  feet.  Granny  had  put  down 
her  burden  and  was  staring  at  Gilbert  with  great  interest. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  he  inquired,  when  horse  and 
rider  had  disappeared. 

"Yon's  Leddy  Eliza  Lament, "  she  replied,  still  ex- 
amining him. 

"Does  she  live  near  here?" 

"Ay;  she  bides  at  Morphie,  away  west  by  the  river." 

"And  how  did  she  meet  with  her  accident?" 

"She  was  coming  in  by  the  field  ahint  the  house,  an* 
the  horse  just  coupet  itsel'.  She  came  in-by  an'  tell't 
me.  She  kens  me  fine." 

It  struck  Gilbert  as  strange  that,  in  spite  of  Lady 
Eliza's  interest  as  she  watched  him  over  the  burying- 
ground  wall,  she  had  not  had  the  curiosity  to  ask  his 
name,  though  they  had  spoken  and  he  had  done  her  a 
service.  He  looked  down  at  the  mud  which  her  boot 
had  transferred  to  his  fingers. 

"Ye've  filed  your  hands,"  observed  Granny.  "Come 
ben  an'  I'll  gie  ye  a  drappie  water  to  them." 

He  followed  her  and  found  himself  in  a  small,  dark 
kitchen.  It  was  clean,  and  a  great  three-legged  caldron 
which  hung  by  a  chain  over  the  fire  was  making  an 
aggressive  bubbling.  A  white  cat,  marked  with  black 
and  brown,  slunk  deceitfully  out  of  its  place  by  the 
hearth  as  they  entered.  The  old  woman  took  an  earthen- 
ware bowl  and  filled  it.  When  he  had  washed  his  hands, 
she  held  out  a  corner  of  her  apron  to  him,  and  he  dried 
them. 

"Sit  down  a  whilie  to  the  fire,"  she  said,  pushing  for- 
ward the  wooden  chair  that  Lady  Eliza  had  despised. 

"Thank  you,   I   cannot,"   he  replied.     "I   must   be 


AT  GARVIEKIRK  27 

going  for  it  will  soon  be  dark;  but  I  should  like  to  pay 
you  another  visit  one  day." 

"Haste  ye  back,  then,"  she  said,  as  he  went  out  of 
the  door. 

Gilbert  turned  as  he  stood  on  the  side-path,  and 
looked  at  the  old  woman.  A  question  was  in  her  face. 

"You'll  be  the  laird  of  Whanland?"  she  inquired, 
rather  loudly. 

He  assented. 

"You're  a  fine  lad,"  said  Granny  Stirk,  as  she  went 
back  into  the  cottage. 


CHAPTER   III 

FRIENDSHIP 

LADY  ELIZA  LAMONT  splashed  along  the  road  and  over 
the  bridge;  her  heart  was  beating  under  the  outlandish 
waistcoat,  and  behind  her  red  face,  so  unsuggestive  of 
emotion  of  any  sort,  a  turmoil  was  going  on  in  her  brain. 
She  had  seen  him  at  last. 

She  breathed  hard,  and  her  mouth  drew  into  a  thin 
line  as  she  passed  Whanland,  and  saw  the  white  walls 
glimmering  through  the  beech-trees.  There  was  a 
light  in  one  of  the  upper  windows,  the  first  she  had  seen 
there  for  thirty  years  in  the  many  times  she  had  ridden 
past. 

He  was  so  little  like  the  picture  her  mind  had  imagined 
that  she  would  scarcely  have  recognised  him,  she  told 
herself.  Yet  still  there  was  that  in  his  look  which  for- 
bade her  to  hate  him  unrestrainedly,  though  he  repre- 
sented all  that  had  set  her  life  awry.  He  was  now  her 
neighbour  and  it  was  likely  they  would  often  meet; 
indeed,  sooner  or  later,  civility  would  compel  her  to 
invite  him  to  wait  upon  her.  She  gave  the  mare  a 
smart  blow  with  her  riding-cane  as  they  turned  into  the 
approach  to  Morphie  House. 

Up  to  the  horse-block  in  the  stable-yard  she  rode,  for 
her  fall  had  made  her  stiff,  and,  though  she  usually 
objected  to  dismounting  upon  it,  she  was  glad  of 
its  help  this  evening.  The  groom  who  came  out  ex- 
claimed as  he  saw  her  plight,  but  she  cut  him  short, 
merely  sending  him  for  a  lantern,  by  the  light  of  which 
they  examined  the  mare  together  in  the  growing  dusk; 

28 


FRIENDSHIP  29 

she  then  gathered  up  her  skirt  and  went  into  the  house 
by  the  back  entrance.  Her  gloves  were  coated  with 
mud,  and  she  peeled  them  off  and  threw  them  on  a 
table  in  the  hall  before  going  into  the  long,  low  room 
in  which  she  generally  sat.  The  lights  had  not  been 
brought  and  it  was  very  dark  as  she  opened  the  door; 
the  two  windows  at  the  end  facing  her  were  mere  gray 
patches  of  twilight  through  which  the  dim,  white  shapes 
of  a  few  sheep  were  visible;  for,  at  Morphie,  the  grass 
grew  up  to  the  walls  at  the  sides  of  the  house.  A 
figure  was  sitting  by  the  hearth  between  the  windows 
arid  a  very  tall  man  rose  from  his  chair  as  she  entered. 

Lady  Eliza  started. 

"Fullarton !_"  she  exclaimed. 

"It  is  I.  1  have  been  waiting  here  expecting  you 
might  return ^earlier.  You  are  out  late  to-night." 

"The  maf^Jput  her  foot  in  a  hole,  stupid  brute!  A 
fine  roll  shelve  me,  too." 

He  made  an  lexclamation,  and,  catching  sight  of  some 
mud  on  her  sleeve,  led  her  to  the  light.  .  She  went 
quietly  and  stood  while  he  looked  at  her. 

"Gad,  my  lady!  you  have  been  down  indeed!  You 
are  none  the  worse,  I  trust?" 

"No,  no;  but  I  will  send  for  a  dish  of  tea,  and  drink 
it  by  the  fire.  It  is  cold  outside." 

"But  you  are  wet,  my  dear  lady." 

"What  does  that  matter?  I  shall  take  no  harm. 
Ring  the  bell,  Fullarton — the  rope  is  at  your  hand." 

Robert  Fullarton  did  as  he  was  desired,  and  stood 
looking  at  the  ragged  grass  and  the  boles  of  the  trees. 
His  figure  and  the  rather  blunt  outline  of  his  features 
showed  dark  against  the  pane.  At  sixty  he  was  as 
upright  as  when  he  and  Lady  Eliza  had  been  young 
together,  and  he  the  first  of  the  county  gentlemen  in 
polite  pursuits.  At  a  time  when  it  was  hardly  possible 
to  be  anything  else,  he  had  never  been  provincial,  for 
though  he  was,  before  anything,  a  sportsman,  he  had 


30  THE  INTERLOPER 

been  one  of  the  very  few  of  his  day  capable  of  combining 
sport  with  wider  interests. 

The  friendship  between  his  own  family  and  that  of 
Morphie  House  had  gone  far  back  into  the  preceding 
century,  long  before  Mr.  Lament,  second  son  of  an  im- 
poverished earl,  had  inherited  the  property  through 
his  mother,  and  settled  down  upon  it  with  Lady  Eliza, 
his  unmarried  sister.  At  his  death  she  had  stepped  into 
his  place,  still  unmarried,  a  blunt,  prejudiced  woman, 
understood  by  few,  and,  oddly  enough,  liked  by  many. 
Morphie  was  hers  for  life  and  was  to  pass,  at  her  death, 
to  a  distant  relation  of  her  mother's  family.  She  was 
well  off,  and,  being  the  only  occupant  of  a  large  house, 
with  few  personal  wants  and  but  one  expensive  taste, 
she  had  become  as  autocratic  as  a  full  purse  and  a  life 
outside  the  struggles  and  knocks  of  the  world  will  make 
anyone  who  is  in  possession  of  both. 

The  expensive  taste  was  her  stable ;  for,  £rom  the  hour 
that  she  had  been  lifted  as  a  little  child  upon  the  back 
of  her  father's  horse,  she  had  wavered  only  once  in  her 
decision  that  horses  and  all  pertaining  to  them  presented 
by  far  the  most  attractive  possibilities  in  life.  Her  hour 
of  wavering  had  come  later. 

The  fire  threw  bright  flickerings  into  the  darkness  of 
the  room  as  Lady  Eliza  sat  and  drank  her  tea.  The 
servant  who  had  brought  it  would  have  brought  in 
lights,  too,  but  she  refused  to  have  them,  saying  that  she 
was  tired  and  that  the  dusk  soothed  her  head,  and  she 
withdrew  into  the  furthest  corner  of  a  high-backed 
settee,  with  the  little  dish  beside  her  on  a  spindle-legged 
table. 

Fullarton  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  hearth,  his 
elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  hands  spread  to  the  blaze. 
They  were  large  hands,  nervous  and  well-formed.  His 
face,  on  which  the  firelight  played,  had  a  look  of  pre- 
occupation, and  the  horizontal  lines  of  his  forehead 
seemed  deeper  than  usual — at  least,  so  his  companion 


FRIENDSHIP  31 

thought.  It  was  easily  seen  that  they  were  very  inti- 
mate, from  the  silence  in  which  they  sat. 

"Surely  you  must  be  rather  wet,"  said  he  again,  after 
a  few  minutes.  "  I  think  it  would  be  wise  if  you  were  to 
change  your  habit  for  dry  clothes." 

"No;  I  will  sit  here." 

"You  have  always  been  a  self-willed  woman,  my 
lady." 

She  made  no  reply,  merely  turning  her  cane  round  and 
round  in  her  hand.  A  loud  crash  came  from  the  fire,  and 
a  large  piece  of  wood  fell  into  the  fender  with  a  sputter  of 
blue  fireworks.  He  picked  it  up  with  the  tongs  and  set 
it  back  in  its  place.  She  watched  him  silently.  It  was 
too  dark  to  read  the  expression  in  her  eyes. 

"I  have  seen  young  Whanland,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Indeed,"  said  Fullarton. 

"He  caught  the  mare  and  brought  her  to  me  at 
Granny  Stirk's  house." 

"What  is  he  like?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"A  proper  young  fellow.  He  obliged  me  very  greatly. 
Have  you  not  met  him?  He  has  bjeen  at  Whanland 
this  fortnight  past,  I  am  told." 

"No,"  said  Fullarton,  with  his  eyes  on  the  flame, 
"never.  I  have  never  seen  him." 

"As  I  came  by  just  now  I  saw  the  lights  in  Whanland 
House.  It  is  a  long  time  that  it  has  been  in  darkness 
now.  I  suppose  that  sawney-faced  Macquean  is  still 
minding  it?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  the  man,  drawing  his  chair  out  of 
the  circle  of  the  light. 

"How  long  is  it  now  since — since  Mrs.  Speid's  death? 
Twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine  years,  I  suppose  ? " 

"It  is  thirty,"  said  Robert. 

"It  was  a  little  earlier  in  the  year  than  this,"  con- 
tinued Lady  Eliza.  "I  remember  seeing  Mr.  Speid's 
travelling-carriage  on  the  road,  with  the  nurse  and  the 
baby  inside  it." 


32  THE  INTERLOPER 

"You  build  your  fires  very  high,"  said  Fullarton. 
"I  must  move  away,  or  the  cold  will  be  all  the  worse 
when  I  get  out  of  doors. 

"But  I  hope  you  will  stay  and  sup,  Fullarton.  You 
have  not  been  here  since  Cecilia  came  back." 

"Not  to-night,"  said  he,  rising;  "another  time. 
Present  my  respects  to  Cecilia,  for  I  must  go." 

Lady  Eliza  sat  still.  He  stood  by  the  settee  holding 
out  his  hand.  His  lips  were  shaking,  but  there  was  a 
steadiness  in  his  voice  and  a  measured  tone  that  told  of 
great  control. 

"Good-night,"  he  said.  "I  left  my  horse  in  the 
stable.  I  will  walk  out  myself  and  fetch  him." 

He  turned  to  go  to  the  door.  She  watched  him  till 
he  had  almost  reached  it. 

"Fullarton!"  she  cried  suddenly;  "come  back!" 

He  looked  round,  but  stood  still  in  his  place. 

"Come  back;  I  must  speak — I  must  tell  you  !" 

He  did  not  move,  so  she  rose  and  stood  between  him 
and  the  fire,  a  grotesque  enough  figure  in  the  dancing 
light. 

"I  know  everything;  I  have  always  known  it.  Do 
you  think  I  did  not  understand  what  had  come  to  you 
in  those  days  ?  Ah  !  I  know — yes,  more  than  ever,  now 
I  have  seen  him.  He  has  a  look  that  I  would  have 
known  anywhere,  Robert." 

He  made  an  inarticulate  sound  as  though  he  were 
about  to  speak. 

She  held  up  her  hand. 

"There  is  no  use  in  denying  it — you  cannot!  How 
can  you,  with  that  man  standing  there  to  give  you  the 
lie?  But  I  have  understood  always — God  knows  I 
have  understood!" 

"It  is  untrue  from  beginning  to  end,"  said  Fullarton 
very  quietly. 

"You  are  obliged  to  say  that,"  she  said  through  her 
teeth.  "It  is  a  lie!" 


FRIENDSHIP  33 

But  for  this  one  friendship,  he  had  lived  half  his  life 
solely  among  men.  He  had  not  fathomed  the  unsparing 
brutality  of  women.  His  hand  was  on  the  door.  She 
sprang  towards  him  and  clasped  both  hers  round  his 
arm. 

"  Robert !  Robert ! "  she  cried. 

"Let  me  go,"  he  said,  trying  to  part  the  hands;  "I 
cannot  bear  this.  Have  you  no  pity,  Eliza  ? " 

"But  you  will  come  back?  Oh,  Robert,  listen  to 
me  !  Listen  to  me  !  You  think  because  I  have  spoken 
now  that  I  will  speak  again.  Never  !  I  never  will !" 

"You  have  broken  everything,"  said  he. 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  asked  fiercely.  "Have  I 
once  made  a  sign  of  what  I  knew  all  those  years  ?  Have 
I,  Robert?" 

"No,"  he  said  thicklv;  "I  suppose  not.  How  can  I 
tell?" 

The  blood  flew  up  into  her  face,  dyeing  it  crimson. 

"What?  what?  Do  you  disbelieve  me?"  she  cried. 
"How  dare  you,  I  say?" 

She  shook  his  arm.  Her  voice  was  so  loud  that  he 
feared  it  might  be  overheard  by  some  other  inmate  of 
the  house.  He  felt  almost  distracted.  He  disengaged 
himself  and  turned  to  the  wall,  his  hand  over  his  face. 
The  pain  of  the  moment  was  so  intolerable.  Lady  Eliza's 
wrath  dropped  suddenly  and  fell  from  her,  leaving  her 
standing  dumb,  for  there  was  something  in  the  look  of 
Fullarton's  bowed  shoulders  that  struck  her  in  the  very 
centre  of  her  heart.  When  she  should  have  been  silent 
she  had  spoken,  and  now,  when  she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  speak,  she  could  not. 

He  turned  slowly  and  they  looked  at  each  other. 
The  fire  had  spurted  up  and  each  could  see  the  other's 
face.  His  expression  was  one  of  physical  suffering. 
He  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

He  knew  his  way  in  every  corner  of  Morphie,  and  he 
went,  as  he  had  often  done,  through  the  passage  by 


34  THE  INTERLOPER 

which  she  had  entered  and  passed  by  the  servants' 
offices  into  the  stable-yard.  He  was  so  much  pre- 
occupied that  he  did  not  hear  her  footsteps  behind  him, 
and  he  walked  out,  unconscious  that  she  followed.  In 
the  middle  of  the  yard  stood  a  weeping-ash  on  a  plot  of 
grass,  and  she  hurried  round  the  tree  and  into  an  out- 
building connected  with  the  stable.  She  entered  and 
saw  his  horse  standing  on  the  pillar-rein,  the  white 
blaze  on  his  face  distinct  in  the  dark.  The  stablemen 
were  indoors.  She  slipped  the  rings  and  led  him  out  of 
the  place  on  to  the  cobble-stones. 

Robert  was  standing  bareheaded  in  the  yard.  He 
took  up  the  rein  mechanically  without  looking  at  her, 
and  put  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  iron.  As  he  was  about 
to  turn,  she  laid  hold  of  the  animal's  mane. 

"Lady  Eliza!"  he  exclaimed,  staring  down  through 
the  dusk. 

"You  have  left  your  hat,  Fullarton,"  she  said.  "I 
will  go  in  and  fetch  it." 

Before  he  could  prevent  her,  she  had  vanished  into  the 
house.  He  sat  for  a  moment  in  his  saddle,  for  there 
was  no  one  to  take  the  horse ;  but  he  followed  her  to  the 
door,  and  dismounted  there.  In  a  couple  of  minutes 
she  returned  with  the  hat. 

"Thank  you — thank  you,"  he  said;  "you  should  not 
have  done  such  a  thing." 

"What  would  I  not  do?" 

"Eliza,"  he  said,  "can  I  trust  you?" 

"You  never  have,"  she  replied  bitterly,  "but  you  will 
need  to  now." 

He  rode  out  of  the  yard. 

She  reached  her  room  without  meeting  anyone,  and 
sank  down  in  an  armchair.  She  longed  to  weep;  but 
Fate,  that  had  denied  her  the  human  joys  which  she 
desired,  but  for  which  she  had  not,  apparently,  been 
created,  withheld  that  natural  relief  too.  The  repressed 
womanhood  in  her  life  seemed  to  confront  her  at  every 


FRIENDSHIP  35 

step.  She  lifted  her  head,  and  caught  sight  of  herself 
in  a  long  cheval  glass,  her  wig,  her  weather-beaten  face, 
her  clumsy  attitude.  She  had  studied  her  reflection  in 
the  thing  many  and  many  a  time  in  the  years  gone  by, 
and  it  had  become  to  her  almost  as  an  enemy — a  candid 
enemy.  As  a  girl  going  to  county  balls  with  her  brother, 
she  had  stood  before  it  trying  to  cheat  herself  into  the 
belief  that  she  was  less  plain  in  her  evening  dress  than 
she  had  been  in  her  morning  one.  Now  she  had  lost 
even  the  freshness  which  had  then  made  her  passable. 
She  told  herself  that,  but  for  that,  youth  had  given  her 
nothing  which  age  could  take  away,  and  she  laughed 
against  her  will  at  the  truth.  She  looked  down  at  the 
pair  of  hands  shining  white  in  the  mirror.  They  were 
her  one  ornament  and  she  had  taken  care  of  them. 
How  small  they  were  !  how  the  fingers  tapered  !  how  the 
pink  of  the  filbert-shaped  nails  showed  against  the 
cream  of  the  skin !  They  were  beautiful.  Yet  they 
had  never  felt  the  touch  of  a  man's  lips,  never  clung 
round  a  lover's  neck,  never  held  a  child.  Everything 
that  made  a  woman's  life  worth  living  had  passed  her 
by.  The  remembrance  of  a  short  time  when  she  had 
thought  she  held  the  Golden  Rose  forever  made  her 
heart  ache.  It  was  Gilbert's  mother  who  had  snatched 
it  from  her. 

And  friendship  had  been  a  poor  substitute  for  what 
she  had  never  possessed.  The  touch  of  love  in  the 
friendship  of  a  man  and  a  woman  which  makes  it  so 
charming,  and  may  make  it  so  dangerous,  had  been 
left  out  between  herself  and  Robert.  She  lived  before 
these  days  of  profound  study  of  sensation,  but  she 
knew  that  by  instinct.  The  passion  for  inflicting  pain 
which  assails  some  people  when  they  are  unhappy  had 
carried  her  tongue  out  of  all  bounds,  and  she  realised 
that  she  was  to  pay  for  its  short  indulgence  with  a 
lasting  regret.  She  did  not  suppose  that  Fullarton 
would  not  return,  but  she  knew  he  would  never  forget, 


36  THE  INTERLOPER 

and  she  feared  that  she  also  would  not  cease  to  remember. 
She  could  not  rid  her  mind  of  the  image  printed  on  it — 
his  figure,  as  he  stood  in  the  long-room  below  with  his 
face  turned  from  her.  She  had  suffered  at  that  moment 
as  cruelly  as  himself,  and  she  had  revelled  in  her  own 
pain. 

When  she  had  put  off  her  riding-habit,  she  threw  on 
a  wrapper  and  lay  down  on  the  bed,  for  she  was  wearied, 
body  and  soul,  and  her  limbs  were  beginning  to  remind 
her  of  her  fall.  It  was  chilly  and  she  shivered,  drawing 
up  the  quilt  over  her  feet.  The  voices  of  two  servants,  a 
groom  and  a  maid,  babbled  on  by  the  ash- tree  in  the 
yard  below;  she  could  not  distinguish  anything  they 
said,  but  the  man's  tone  predominated.  They  were 
making  love,  no  doubt.  Lady  Eliza  pressed  her  head 
into  the  pillow  and  tried  to  shut  out  the  sound. 

She  was  half  asleep  when  someone  tapped  at  the  door, 
and,  getting  no  answer,  opened  it  softly. 

"Is  it  Cecilia?"  said  she,  sitting  up. 

"My  dearest  aunt,  are  you  asleep ?  Oh,  I  fear  I  have 
awakened  you." 

The  girl  stood  holding  back  the  curtains.  As  she 
looked  at  the  bed  her  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"I  have  only  this  moment  heard  of  your  accident," 
she  said. 

"I  am  not  hurt,  my  dear,  so  don't  distress  yourself." 

"Thank  Heaven!"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"My  patience,  Cecilia,  you  are  quite  upset !  What  a 
little  blockhead  you  are  !" 

For  answer,  Cecilia  took  Lady  Eliza's  hand  in  both 
her  own,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  it.  She  said  nothing. 

"It  must  be  almost  supper- time,"  said  the  elder 
woman.  "I  will  rise,  for  you  will  be  waiting." 

"May  I  not  bring  something  up  to  your  room,  ma'am ? 
I  think  you  should  lie  still  in  bed.  I  am  very  well 
alone." 

"  Nonsense,  child !     Go  downstairs,  and  let  me  get  up. 


FRIENDSHIP  37 

I  suppose  you  think  I  am  too  old  to  take  care  of 
myself." 

Cecilia  went  out  as  she  was  bid,  and  took  her  way  to 
the  dining-room.  Her  face  was  a  little  troubled,  for 
she  saw  that  Lady  Eliza  was  more  shaken  than  she  had 
been  willing  to  admit,  and  she  suspected  the  presence 
of  some  influence  which  she  did  not  understand;  for 
the  two  women,  so  widely  removed  in  character  and  age, 
had  so  strong  a  bond  of  affection,  that,  while  their 
minds  could  never  meet  on  common  ground,  there  was 
a  sympathy  between  them  apart  from  all  individual  bias. 

Cecilia  was  one  of  those  unusual  people  whose  outward 
personalities  never  look  unsuitable  to  the  life  encompass- 
ing them,  though  their  inward  beings  may  be  completely 
aloof  from  everything  surrounding  them  physically. 
She  sat  down  by  the  table,  her  gray  gown  melting  into 
the  background  of  the  walls,  and  the  whiteness  of  her 
long  neck  rising  distinct  from  it.  Her  dress  was  cut  open 
in  front  and  bordered  by  a  narrow  line  of  brown  fur 
which  crossed  on  her  bosom.  Though  she  was  so  slim, 
the  little  emerald  brooch  which  held  the  fastening  of  it 
together  sank  into  the  hollow  made  by  her  figure;  her 
hair  was  drawn  up  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  piled  in 
many  rolls  round  a  high,  tortoiseshell  comb.  Her  long 
eyes,  under  straight  brows,  seemed,  in  expression,  to 
be  holding  something  hidden  behind  the  eyelashes — 
something  intangible,  elusive.  To  see  her  was  to  be 
reminded,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  of  mists,  of 
shadows,  of  moonlit  things — things  half  seen,  things 
remembered.  Her  lips  closed  evenly,  though  in  beauti- 
ful lines,  and  the  upper,  not  short  enough  for  real  beauty, 
had  an  outward  curve,  as  it  rested  on  its  fellow,  which 
held  a  curious  attraction.  She  was  very  pale  with  a 
pallor  that  did  not  suggest  ill-health. 

Though  she  was  the  only  young  inhabitant  of  Morphie, 
she  existed  among  the  dusty  passages — dusty  with  the 
powdering  of  ages — and  the  sober  unconventionality 


38  THE  INTERLOPER 

of  the  place  as  naturally  as  one  of  those  white  plants 
which  haunt  remote  waterways  exists  among  the  hidden 
hollows  and  shadows  of  pools.  She  was  very  distantly 
related  to  Lady  Eliza  Lament,  but,  when  the  death  of 
both  parents  had  thrown  her.  on  the  world,  a  half-grown, 
penniless  girl,  she  had  come  to  Morphie  for  a  month  to 
gain  strength  after  an  illness,  and  remained  there  twelve 
years.  Lady  Eliza,  ostentatiously  grumbling  at  the 
responsibility  she  had  imposed  upon  herself,  found,  at 
the  end  of  the  time,  that  she  could  not  face  the  notion 
of  parting  with  Cecilia.  It  was  the  anxiety  of  her  life 
that,  though  she  had  practically  adopted  the  girl,  she 
had  nothing  she  could  legally  leave  her  at  her  death  but 
her  own  personal  possessions. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  came  down  in  the  ancient 
pelisse  which  she  found  comfortable  after  the  exertions 
of  the  day.  She  had  taught  Cecilia  something  of  the 
activity  which,  though  now  a  part  of  most  well-bred 
women's  lives,  was  then  almost  an  eccentricity.  The 
female  part  of  the  little  society  which  filled  Kaims  in 
the  winter  months  nodded  its  "dressed"  head  over  its 
cards  and  teacups  in  polished  dismay  at  the  effect  such 
ways  would  surely  have  on  the  young  women;  at  other 
times  one  might  hardly  have  guessed  at  the  lurking 
solicitude  in  so  many  womanly  bosoms ;  for,  though  un- 
willing, for  many  reasons,  to  disagree  with  Lady  Eliza, 
their  owners  were  apt,  with  the  curious  reasoning  of  their 
sex,  to  take  her  adopted  daughter  as  a  kind  of  insult  to 
themselves.  It  was  their  opinion  that  Miss  Cecilia 
Raeburn,  though  a  sweet  young  lady,  would,  of  course, 
find  the  world  a  very  different  place  when  her  ladyship's 
time  should  come,  and  they  only  hoped  she  was  sensible 
of  the  debt  she  owed  her;  these  quiet -looking  girls  were 
often  very  sly.  With  prudent  eyes  the  matrons  con- 
gratulated themselves  and  each  other  that  their  own 
Carolines  and  Amelias  were  "less  unlike  other  people," 
and  had  defined,  if  modest,  prospects;  and  such  of  the 


FRIENDSHIP  39 

Carolines  and  Amelias  who  chanced  to  be  privily  listen- 
ing would  smirk  in  secure  and  conscious  unison.  Even 
Miss  Hersey  Robertson,  who  mixed  a  little  in  these 
circles,  was  inclined  to  be  critical. 

The  advent  of  a  possible  husband,  though  he  would 
present  in  himself  the  solution  of  all  difficulties,  had  only 
vaguely  entered  Lady  Eliza's  mind.  Like  many  parents, 
she  supposed  that  the  girl  would  "many  some  day," 
and,  had  anyone  questioned  the  probability  in  her 
presence,  it  is  likely  that  she  would  have  been  very 
angry.  Fullarton,  who  was  consulted  on  every  subject, 
had  realised  that  the  life  at  Morphie  was  an  unnatural 
one  for  Cecilia  and  spoken  his  mind  to  some  purpose. 
He  suggested  that  she  should  pass  a  winter  in  Edinburgh, 
and,  though  Lady  Eliza  refused  stubbornly  to  plunge 
into  a  society  to  whose  customs  she  felt  herself  unable 
to  conform,  it  was  arranged  by  him  that  a  favourite 
cousin,  widow  of  the  late  Lord  Advocate  of  Scotland, 
should  receive  the  girl.  This  lady,  who  was  childless, 
and  longed  for  someone  to  accompany  her  to  those  routs 
and  parties  dear  to  her  soul,  found  in  her  kinsman's 
suggestion  something  wellnigh  providential.  So  kind 
a  welcome  did  she  extend,  that  her  charge,  whose 
pleasure  in  the  arrangement  had  been  but  a  mixed 
business,  set  out  with  an  almost  cheerful  spirit. 

A  nature  inclined  to  study  and  reflection,  and  nine 
years  of  life  with  a  person  of  quick  tongue,  had  bred  in 
Cecilia  a  different  calibre  of  mind  to  that  of  the  provincial 
young  lady  of  her  time;  and  Lady  Eliza  had  procured 
her  excellent  tuition.  The  widow  had  expected  to  find 
in  her  guest  a  far  less  uncommon  personality,  and  it  was 
with  real  satisfaction  that  she  proceeded  to  introduce 
her  to  the  very  critical  and  rather  literary  society  which 
she  frequented.  There  were  some  belonging  to  it  who 
were  to  see  in  Miss  Raeburn,  poor  as  she  was,  an  ideal 
future  for  themselves.  Cecilia,  when  she  returned  to 
Morphie,  left  more  than  one  very  sore  heart  behind  her. 


40  THE  INTERLOPER 

To  many  it  seemed  wonderful  that  her  experiences  had 
not  spoiled  her,  and  that  she  could  take  up  life  again  in 
the  draughty,  ill-lit  house,  whose  only  outward  signs  of 
animation  were  the  sheep  grazing  under  its  windows  and 
the  pigeons  pluming  in  rows  under  the  weathercock 
swinging  crazily  on  the  stable  roof. 

What  people  underrated  was  her  devoted  attachment 
to  Lady  Eliza,  and  what  they  could  not  understand  was 
the  fact  that,  while  she  was  charmed,  interested,  and 
apparently  engrossed  by  many  things,  her  inner  life 
might  hold  so  completely  aloof  as  never  to  have  been 
within  range  of  them. 


CHAPTER  IV 
JIMMY 

INLAND  from  the  river's  mouth  the  dark  plough-fields 
stretched  sombre,  restful,  wide,  uncut  by  detail.  The 
smaller  roads  intersecting  the  country  were  treeless  in 
the  main,  and  did  not  draw  the  eye  from  the  majesty  of 
the  denned  woods.  There  was  everything  to  suggest 
breadth  and  full  air;  and  the  sky,  as  Gilbert  rode  up 
toward  a  farm  cresting  the  swell  of  the  high  horizon,  was 
as  suggestive  of  it  as  the  earth.  The  clear  gray  meeting 
the  sweep  of  the  world  was  an  immensity  on  which  cloud- 
masses,  too  high  for  rain,  but  full  of  it,  looked  as  though 
cut  adrift  by  some  Titanic  hand  and  left  to  sail  derelict 
on  the  cold  heavens. 

The  road  he  was  travelling  was  enlivened  by  a  stream 
of  people,  all  going  in  the  same  direction  as  himself,  and 
mostly  on  foot,  though  a  couple  of  gigs,  whose  occupants 
looked  as  much  too  large  for  them  as  the  occupants  of 
country  gigs  generally  do,  were  ascending  to  the  farm  at 
that  jog  which  none  but  agriculturally-interested  per- 
sons can  suffer. 

A  displenishing  sale,  or  "roup,"  as  it  is  called,  had 
been  advertised  there,  which  was  drawing  both  thrifty 
and  extravagant  to  its  neighbourhood.  Curiosity  was 
drawing  Gilbert.  A  compact  little  roan,  bought  for 
hacking  about  the  country,  was  stepping  briskly  under 
him,  showing  its  own  excellent  manners  and  the  ease  and 
finish  of  its  rider's  seat.  Beside  the  farm  a  small  crowd 
was  gathered  round  the  pursy  figure  of  a  water-butt  on 
high  legs,  which  stood  out  against  the  sky. 


42  THE  INTERLOPER 

As  he  went,  he  observed,  coming  down  a  cart-road,  two 
other  mounted  people,  a  man  and  a  woman.  He 
judged  that  he  and  they  would  meet  where  their  respec- 
tive ways  converged,  and  he  was  not  wrong,  for  in  another 
minute  he  was  face  to  face  with  Robert  Fullarton  and 
Lady  Eliza  Lamont.  He  drew  aside  to  let  them  pass  on. 
Lady  Eliza  bowed  and  her  mare  began  to  sidle  excitedly 
to  the  edge  of  the  road,  upset  by  the  sudden  meeting 
with  a  strange  horse. 

"Good-day  to  you,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  recognised 
him.  "I  am  fortunate  to  have  met  you.  It  was 
most  obliging  of  you  to  come  and  inquire  for  me  as 
you  did." 

"Indeed,  I  could  do  no  less,"  replied  Gilbert,  hat  in 
hand,  "and  I  am  very  glad  to  see  your  ladyship  on  horse- 
back again." 

"Lord,  sir,  I  was  out  the  next  day.  Fullarton,  let  me 
make  you  acquaint  with  Mr.  Speid,  of  Whanland.  Sir, 
Mr.  Robert  Fullarton,  of  Fullarton." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed  gravely. 

Lady  Eliza  was  so  anxious  to  assure  the  man  beside 
her  of  her  perfect  good  faith  and  good  feeling  after  the 
painful  meeting  of  a  few  weeks  ago  that  she  would  will- 
ingly have  gone  arm-in-arm  to  the  "roup"  with  Gilbert, 
had  circumstances  and  decorum  allowed  it.  She 
brought  her  animal  abreast  of  the  roan  and  proceeded 
with  the  two  men,  one  on  either  side  of  her.  Robert, 
understanding  her  impulse,  would  have  fallen  in  with  it 
had  not  the  sharp  twinge  of  memory  which  the  young 
man's  presence  evoked  almost  choked  him.  It  was  a 
minute  before  he  could  speak. 

"You  are  newly  come,  sir,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  am  to 
blame  for  not  having  presented  myself  at  Whanland 
before." 

Gilbert  made  a  civil  reply. 

"  I  hear  this  is  likely  to  be  a  large  sale,"  observed  Ful- 
larton, as  they  rode  along.  "There  is  a  great  deal  of 


JIMMY  43 

live  stock,  and  some  horses.  Have  you  any  interest 
in  it?" 

"The  simple  wish  to  see  my  neighbours  has  brought 
me,"  replied  Gilbert.  "I  have  so  much  to  learn  that  I 
lose  no  chance  of  adding  anything  to  my  experience." 

While  they  were  yet  some  way  from  their  destination 
the  crowd  parted  for  a  moment,  and  Lady  Eliza  caught 
sight  of  the  object  in  its  midst.  She  pointed  towards  it. 

"Ride,  Fullarton  !  ride,  for  God's  sake,  and  bid  for  the 
water-butt !"  she  cried. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  lady.     What  use  have  you  for  it?" 

"It  will  come  very  useful  for  drowning  the  stable  ter- 
rier's puppies.  She  has  them  continually.  Ride,  I  tell 
you,  man !  Am  I  to  be  overrun  with  whelps  because 
you  will  not  bestir  yourself?" 

Gilbert  could  scarce  conceal  his  amusement,  and  was 
divided  between  his  desire  to  laugh  aloud  and  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  the  lady  would  appeal  to  him. 

The  auctioneer  was  seen  at  this  juncture  to  leap  down 
from  the  wood-pile  on  which  he  stood,  and  a  couple  of 
men  hurried  forward  and  began  to  remove  the  water- 
butt.  It  was  being  hustled  away  like  some  corpulent 
drunkard,  its  legs  trailing  the  ground  stiffly  and  raising  a 
dust  that  threatened  to  choke  the  bystanders. 

The  yard  was  full  of  people,  and,  as  the  auctioneer  had 
paused  between  two  lots,  and  was  being  refreshed  at  the 
expense  of  the  farm's  owner,  tongues  were  loose,  and  the 
air  was  filled  with  discussion,  jests,  and  the  searching 
smell  of  tobacco  and  kicked-up  straw.  Among  the  few 
women  present  Gilbert  perceived  Granny  Stirk,  seated 
precariously  on  the  corner  of  the  wood-pile  from  which 
the  auctioneer  had  just  descended.  Beside  her  was  a 
tall,  shock-headed  lad  of  nineteen  or  so,  whom  only  the 
most  unobservant  could  suspect  of  belonging  to  the 
same  category  as  the  farm -boys,  though  his  clothes  were 
of  the  same  fashion  as  their  own,  and  his  face  wore  the 
same  healthy  tanned  red.  He  was  spare  and  angular, 


44  THE  INTERLOPER 

and  had  that  particular  focus  of  eye  which  one  sees  in 
men  who  steer  boats,  drive  horses,  pay  out  ropes,  and 
whose  hands  can  act  independently  while  they  are  look- 
ing distant  possibilities  in  the  face.  A  halter  dangled 
from  his  arm.  He  was  very  grave,  and  his  thoughts  were 
evidently  fixed  on  the  door  of  the  farm  stable.  In  spite 
of  his  sharp-cut  personality,  he  stood  by  Granny  Stirk 
in  a  way  that  suggested  servitude. 

Gilbert  left  his  companions  and  went  toward  the 
couple.  Granny's  face  was  lengthened  to  suit  the 
demands  of  a  public  occasion,  and  her  little  three- 
cornered  woollen  shawl  was  pinned  with  a  pebble  brooch. 

"What  ails  ye  that  ye  canna  see  the, laird  of  Whan- 
land?"  she  said,  turning  to  the  boy  as  Speid  stopped 
beside  them. 

He  shuffled  awkwardly  with  his  cap. 

"  He's  ma  grandson,  an'  it's  a  shelt*  he's  after." 

Gilbert  was  getting  a  little  more  familiar  with  local 
speech. 

"Do  you  intend  to  buy?"  he  said  to  the  lad. 

Jimmy  Stirk  brought  his  eyes  back  to  his  immediate 
surroundings,  and  looked  at  the  speaker.  They  were 
so  much  lighter  than  the  brown  face  in  which  they  were 
set,  and  their  gaze  was  so  direct,  that  Gilbert  was  almost 
startled.  It  was  as  though  someone  had  gripped  him. 

"Ay,  that's  it.  He's  to  buy,"  broke  in  Granny.  "He's 
aye  wanted  this,  an'  we'd  be  the  better  of  twa,  for  the 
auld  ane's  getting  fairly  done." 

"  I  doubt  I'll  no  get  it  yet,"  said  the  boy. 

"He's  sold  near  a'  the  things  he's  got,"  continued 
Granny,  looking  at  her  grandson's  feet,  which  Gilbert 
suddenly  noticed  were  bare.  "A'm  fair  ashamed  to  be 
seen  wi'  him." 

"How  much  have  you  got  together?"  inquired  the 
young  man. 

*  Pony. 


JIMMY  45 

Jimmy  opened  his  hand.  There  were  ten  pounds  in 
the  palm. 

"He  got  half  that,  July  month  last,  from  a  gentleman 
that  was  like  to  be  drowned  down  by  the  river's  mouth ; 
he  just  gaed  awa  an'  ca'ed  him  in  by  the  lugs,"*  explained 
his  grandmother. 

"Did  you  swim  out?"  asked  Speid,  interested. 

"Ay,"  replied  Jimmy,  whose  eyes  had  returned  to  the 
door. 

"That  was  well  done." 

"I  kenned  I'd  get  somethin',"  observed  the  boy. 

The  auctioneer  now  emerged  from  the  farm-house  and 
the  crowd  began  to  draw  together  like  a  piece  of  elastic. 
He  came  straight  to  the  wood^pile. 

"Are  you  needing  all  that  to  yoursel'?"  he  enquired, 
looking  jocosely  at  the  bystanders  as  he  paused  before 
Granny  Stirk. 

"Na,  na;  up  ye  go,  my  lad.  The  biggest  leer  in  the 
armchair,"  said  the  old  woman  as  she  rose. 

"It's  ill  work  meddling  wi'  the  Queen  o'  the  Cadgers," 
remarked  a  man  who  stood  near. 

Gilbert  determined  to  stay  in  his  place  by  the  Stirks, 
for  the  commotion  and  trampling  going  on  proclaimed 
that  the  live  stock  were  on  the  eve  of  being  brought  to 
the  hammer.  The  cart-horses  were  the  first  to  be  dis- 
posed of,  so,  having  found  someone  who  offered  to  put 
the  roan  into  a  spare  stall,  he  abandoned  himself  to  the 
interest  with  which  the  scene  inspired  him. 

Jimmy  Stirk 's  face,  when  the  last  team  had  been  led 
away,  told  him  the  all-important  moment  had  come. 
The  boy  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue  and  looked 
at  him.  His  hand  was  shut  tightly  upon  the  money  it 
held. 

It  was  difficult  to  imagine  what  use  the  owner  of  the 
farm  might  have  found  for  the  animal  being  walked 

*Eara. 


46  THE  INTERLOPER 

about  before  the  possible  buyers,  for  he  was  just  fifteen 
hands  and  seemed  far  too  light  to  carry  a  heavy  man,  or 
to  be  put  between  the  shafts  of  one  of  those  clumsy 
gigs  which  rolled  unevenly  into  Kaims  on  market-days. 
In  spite  of  the  evident  strain  of  good  blood,  he  was  no 
beauty,  being  somewhat  ewe-necked  and  too  long  in  the 
back.  But  his  shoulder  sloped  properly  to  the  withers, 
and  his  length  of  stride  behind,  as  he  was  walked  round, 
gave  promise  of  speed;  his  full  eye  took  a  nervous  sur- 
vey of  the  mass  of  humanity  surrounding  him.  The  man 
who  led  him  turned  him  abruptly  round  and  held  him 
facing  the  wood-pile.  Gilbert  could  hear  Jimmy  Stirk 
breathing  hard  at  his  shoulder. 

The  auctioneer  looked  round  upon  the  crowd  with  the 
noisome  familiarity  of  his  class,  a  shepherd's  crook 
which  he  held  ready  to  strike  on  the  planks  at  his  feet 
substituting  the  traditional  hammer. 

"You'll  no'  hae  seen  the  like  o'  lot  fifty-seven  here- 
about," he  began.  "Yon's  a  gentleman's  naig — no  ane 
o'  they  coorse  deevils  that  trayvels  the  road  at  the  term 
wi'  an  auld  wife  that's  shifting  hoose  cocked  up  i'  the 
cart — he  wouldna  suit  you,  Granny." 

He  looked  down  at  the  old  woman,  the  grudge  he  bore 
her  lurking  in  his  eye. 

"  Hoots  !"  she  exclaimed ;  "  tak  him  yoursel',  gin  ye  see 
ony  chance  o'  bidin'  on  his  back !" 

The  auctioneer  was  an  indifferent  horseman. 

"A  gentleman's  naig,  I'm  telling  ye  !  Fit  for  the  laird 
o'  Fullarton,  or  maybe,  her  ladyship  hersel',"  he  roared, 
eager  to  cover  his  unsuccessful  sally  and  glancing  toward 
Robert  and  Lady  Eliza,  who  sat  on  horseback  watching 
the  proceedings.  ' 'Aicht  pounds  !  Aicht  pounds  !  Ye'll 
na  get  sic  a  chance  this  side  o'  the  New  Year !" 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  but  a  man  with  a  brush  of 
black  whisker,  unusual  to  his  epoch,  cast  a  furtive  glance 
at  the  horse. 

"Speak  up,  Davie  MacLunder !  speak  up  !" 


JIMMY  47 

Another  dead  silence  followed. 

"Fiech!"  said  David  MacLunder  suddenly,  without 
moving  a  muscle  of  his  face. 

"Seven  pound!  Seven  pounds!  Will  nane  o'  you 
speak  ?  Will  I  hae  to  bide  here  a'  the  day  crying  on  ye  ? 
Seven  pound,  I  tell  ye  !  Seven  pound  !" 

"Seven  pound  five,"  said  a  slow  voice  from  behind  a 
haystack. 

"  I  canna  see  ye,  but  you're  a  grand  man  for  a'  that," 
cried  the  auctioneer,  "an'  I  wish  there  was  mair  like  ye  !" 

"Seven  ten,"  said  Jimmy  Stirk. 

"Aicht,"  continued  the  man  behind  the  haystack. 

Though  Gilbert  knew  lot  fifty-seven  to  be  worth  more 
than  all  the  money  in  Jimmy's  palm,  he  hoped  that  the 
beast's  extreme  unsuitability  to  the  requirements  of 
those  present  might  tell  in  the  lad's  favour.  The  price 
rose  to  eight  pound  ten. 

"Nine,"  said  Jimmy. 

"And  ten  to  that,"  came  from  the  haystack. 

"Ten  pound,"  said  the  boy,  taking  a  step  forward. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  the  auctioneer  held  up  his 
crook. 

"Ten  pounds  !  "  he  cried.  "He's  awa  at  ten  pounds ! 
Ane,  twa " 

"Ten  pound  ten  !  "  shouted  Davie  MacLunder. 

Jimmy  Stirk  turned  away,  bitter  disappointment  in 
his  face.  In  spite  of  his  nineteen  years  and  strong  hands, 
his  eyes  were  filling.  No  one  knew  how  earnestly  he  had 
longed  for  the  little  horse. 

"Eleven,"  said  Gilbert. 

"Eleven  ten!" 

"Twelve." 

The  auctioneer  raised  his  crook  again,  and  threw  a 
searching  glance  round. 

"Twelve  pound!  Twelve  pound!  Twelve  pound 
for  the  last  time  !  Ane,  twa,  three " 

The  crook  came  down  with  a  bang. 


48  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Twelve  pound.     The  laird  of  Whanland." 

"He  is  yours,"  said  Speid,  taking  the  bewildered 
Jimmy  by  the  elbow.  "Your  grandmother  was  very 
civil  to  me  the  first  time  I  saw  her,  and  I  am  glad  to  be 
able  to  oblige  her." 

The  boy  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

Gilbert  had  slipped  some  money  into  his  pocket  before 
starting  for  the  sale ;  he  held  the  two  gold  pieces  out  to 
him. 

"You  can  take  him  home  with  you  now,"  he  said, 
smiling. 

Jimmy  Stirk  left  the  "roup"  in  an  internal  exultation 
which  had  no  outward  nor  visible  sign  but  an  additional 
intensity  of  aspect,  the  halter  which  had  hung  over  his 
arm  adorning  the  head  of  the  little  brown  horse,  on  whose 
back  he  jogged  recklessly  through  the  returning  crowd. 
His  interest  in  the  sale  had  waned  the  moment  he  had 
become  owner  of  his  prize ;  but  his  grandmother,  who  had 
set  out  to  enjoy  herself  and  meant  to  do  so  thoroughly, 
had  insisted  on  his  staying  to  the  end.  She  kept  her 
seat  at  the  foot  of  the  wood-pile  till  the  last  lot  had 
changed  hands,  using  her  tongue  effectively  on  all  who 
interfered  with  her,  and  treating  her  grandson  with  a 
severity  which  was  her  way  of  marking  her  sense  of  his 
good  fortune. 

Granny  Stirk,  or  "the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers,"  as  local 
familiarity  had  christened  her,  was  one  of  those  vigorous 
old  people,  who,  having  lived  every  hour  of  their  own 
lives,  are  always  attracted  by  the  possibilities  of  youth, 
and  whose  sympathy  goes  with  the  swashbuckling  half 
of  the  world.  For  the  tamer  portion  of  it,  however 
respectable,  they  have  little  feeling,  and  are  often 
rewarded  by  being  looked  upon  askance  during  life  and 
very  much  missed  after  death.  They  exist,  for  the  most 
part,  either  in  primitive  communities  or  in  very  old- 
fashioned  ones,  and  rarely  in  that  portion  of  society 
which  lies  between  the  two.  Gilbert,  with  his  appear- 


JIMMY  49 

ance  of  a  man  to  whom  anything  in  the  way  of  adventure 
might  happen,  had  roused  her  interest  the  moment  she 
saw  him  holding  Lady  Eliza's  mare  outside  her  own 
cottage  door.  His  expression,  his  figure,  his  walk,  the 
masculine  impression  his  every  movement  conveyed, 
had  evoked  her  keenest  sympathy,  and,  besides  being 
grateful  for  his  kindness  to  Jimmy,  she  was  pleased  to 
the  core  of  her  heart  by  the  high-handed  liberality  he  had 
shown.  It  was  profitable  to  herself  and  it  had  become 
him  well,  she  considered. 

The  cadgers,  or  itinerant  fish-sellers,  who  formed  a 
distinct  element  in  the  population  of  that  part  of  the 
coast,  were  a  race  not  always  leniently  looked  upon  by 
quiet  folk,  though  there  was,  in  reality,  little  evil  that 
could  be  laid  to  their  charge  but  the  noise  they  made. 
While  they  had  a  bad  name,  they  were  neither  more  nor 
less  dishonest  and  drunken  than  other  people,  and  had, 
at  least,  the  merit  of  doing  their  business  efficiently. 
It  was  they  who  carried  the  fish  inland  after  the  boats 
came  in,  and  those  who  stood  on  their  own  feet  and  were 
not  in  the  pay  of  the  Kaims  fishmongers,  kept,  like  the 
Stirks,  their  own  carts  and  horses.  When  the  haul  came 
to  be  spread  and  the  nets  emptied,  the  crowding  cadgers 
would  buy  up  their  loads,  either  for  themselves  or  for 
their  employers,  and  start  inland,  keeping  a  smart  but 
decent  pace  till  they  were  clear  of  the  town,  and,  once 
on  the  road,  putting  the  light-heeled  screws  they  affected 
to  their  utmost  speed.  Those  whose  goal  was  the  town 
of  Blackport,  seven  or  eight  miles  from  the  coast,  know- 
ing that  the  freshest  fish  commanded  the  highest  price, 
used  the  highroad  as  a  racecourse,  on  which  they  might 
be  met  either  singly  or  in  a  string  of  some  half-dozen 
carts,  pursuing  their  tempestuous  course. 

The  light  carts  which  they  drove  were,  in  construction, 
practically  flat  boxes  upon  two  wheels,  on  the  front  of 
which  sat  the  driver,  his  legs  dangling  between  the 
shafts.  As  they  had  no  springs  and  ran  behind  horses 


So  THE  INTERLOPER 

to  which  ten  miles  an  hour  was  the  business  of  life,  the 
rattle  they  made,  as  they  came  bowling  along,  left  no 
one  an  excuse  for  being  driven  over  who  had  not  been 
born  deaf.  Those  in  the  employ  of  the  Kaims  fish- 
mongers would  generally  run  in  company,  contending 
each  mile  hotly  with  men  who,  like  Jimmy  Stirk,  traded 
for  themselves  and  took  the  road  in  their  own  interests. 

More  than  forty  years  before  the  time  of  which  I  speak, 
Granny  Stirk,  then  a  strikingly  handsome  young  woman, 
lived  with  her  husband  in  the  cottage  which  was  still  her 
home.  Stirk,  a  cadger  well  known  on  the  road  for  his 
blasphemous  tongue  and  the  joy  fulness  of  his  Saturday 
nights,  was  reported  to  be  afraid  of  his  wife,  and  it  is 
certain  that,  but  for  her  strong  hand  and  good  sense, 
he  would  have  been  a  much  less  successful  member  of 
society.  As  it  was,  he  managed  to  lead  an  almost  decent 
life,  and  was  killed,  while  still  a  young  man,  in  an  acci- 
dent. 

Mrs.  Stirk  thus  found  herself  a  widow,  with  two  little 
boys  under  ten,  a  cart,  a  couple  of  angular  horses,  and  no 
male  relations ;  in  spite  of  the  trouble  she  had  had  with 
him,  she  missed  her  man,  and,  after  his  funeral,  prepared 
herself  to  contend  with  two  things — poverty  and  the  dul- 
ness  of  life.  She  cared  little  for  the  company  of  her  own 
sex,  and  the  way  in  which  her  widowhood  cut  her  off 
from  the  world  of  men  and  movement  galled  and  wearied 
her.  So  it  was  from  inclination  as  well  as  necessity  that 
she  one  day  mounted  the  cart  in  her  husband's  vacant 
place,  and  appeared  at  Kaims  after  the  boats  came  in,  to 
be  greeted  with  the  inevitable  jeers.  But  the  jeers  could 
not  stop  her  shrewd  purchasing,  nor  alter  the  fact  that 
she  had  iron  nerves  and  a  natural  judgment  of  pace,  and 
in  the  market  she  was  soon  let  alone  as  one  with  whom 
it  was  unprofitable  to  bandy  words.  For  curses  she 
cared  little,  having  heard  too  many;  to  her  they  were 
light  things  to  encounter  in  the  fight  for  her  bread,  her 
children,  and  the  joy  of  life. 


JIMMY  51 

Her  position  became  assured  one  day,  when,  after  a 
time  of  scarcity  in  the  fish-market,  a  good  haul  held  out 
the  prospect  of  an  unusual  sale  inland.  A  string  of 
cadgers  who  had  started  before  Mrs.  Stirk  were  well  out 
on  the  road  when  she  appeared  from  a  short-cut  con- 
sidered unfit  for  wheels,  and  having  hung  shrewdly  to 
their  skirts,  passed  them  just  outside  Blackport,  her 
heels  on  the  shaft,  her  whip  ostentatiously  idle,  and  her 
gold  earrings  swinging  in  her  ears. 

When  her  eldest  son  was  of  an  age  to  help  her,  he  ran 
away  to  sea ;  and  when  she  gave  up  the  reins  to  the  sec- 
ond, she  retired  to  the  ordinary  feminine  life  of  her  class 
with  the  nickname  of  the  "Queen  of  the  Cadgers"  and 
a  heavier  purse.  Behind  her  were  a  dozen  years  of  hard 
work.  When  her  successor  died,  as  his  father  had  done, 
in  the  prime  of  life,  the  sailor  son,  as  a  sort  of  rough  pay- 
ment for  his  own  desertion,  sent  his  boy  Jimmy  to  take 
his  place;  the  arrangement  suited  Mrs.  Stirk,  and  her 
grandson  took  kindly  to  his  trade.  They  had  spent  a 
couple  of  years  together  when  Gilbert  Speid  came  into 
their  lives  as  owner  of  the  land  on  which  their  cottage 
stood. 

Lady  Eliza  remained  in  her  saddle  for  the  whole  of  the 
sale,  though  Fullarton  put  his  horse  in  the  stable.  She 
beckoned  to  Gilbert  to  join  them,  and  the  two  men  stood 
by  her  until  the  business  was  over  and  the  crowd  began 
to  disperse.  They  rode  homeward  together,  their  roads 
being  identical  for  a  few  miles,  threading  their  way 
through  the  led  horses,  driven  cattle,  and  humanity 
which  the  end  of  the  "roup"  had  let  loose.  Jimmy 
Stirk  passed  them  on  his  new  acquisition,  for  he  had 
flung  himself  on  its  back  to  try  its  paces,  leaving  his 
grandmother  to  follow  at  her  leisure. 

"Did  you  buy  that  horse  for  the  saddle  or  for  harness  ?" 
inquired  Fullarton,  as  the  boy  passed  them. 

"He  is  not  mine,"  replied  Gilbert.  "It  was  young 
Stirk  who  bought  him." 


52  THE  INTERLOPER 

"But  surely  I  heard  the  auctioneer  knock  him  down 
to  you." 

"I  outbid  him  by  two  pounds.  He  had  not  enough, 
so  I  added  that  on  for  him.  I  never  saw  anyone  so 
much  in  earnest  as  he  was,"  explained  Gilbert. 

Fullarton  was  silent,  and  Lady  Eliza  looked  curiously 
at  the  young  man. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  the  boy,"  he  added, 
feeling  rather  foolish  under  her  scrutiny.  "I  fear  you 
think  me  very  soft-hearted." 

"That  is  to  your  credit,"  said  Fullarton,  with  the 
least  touch  of  artificiality. 

"Perhaps  you  have  the  quality  yourself,  sir,  and  are 
the  more  leniently  inclined  toward  me  in  consequence," 
replied  Gilbert,  a  little  chafed  by  the  other's  tone. 

"We  shall  have  all  our  people  leaving  us  and  taking 
service  at  Whanland,"  said  Lady  Eliza.  "You  have 
obliged  me  also,  for  my  fish  will  arrive  the  fresher." 

"  Do  you  deal  with  the  Stirks  ?"  inquired  Gilbert. 

"I  have  done  so  ever  since  I  came  to  this  part  of  the 
country,  out  of  respect  for  that  old  besom,  Granny.  I 
like  the  boy,  too;  there  is  stout  stuff  in  that  family." 

"Then  I  have  committed  no  folly  in  helping  him?" 
said  Speid. 

"Lord,  no,  sir!  Fullarton,  this  is  surely  not  your 
turning  home?" 

"It  is,"  said  he,  "and  I  will  bid  you  good  evening,  for 
Mr.  Speid  will  escort  you.  Sir,  I  shall  wait  upon  you 
shortly,  and  hope  to  see  you  later  at  my  house." 

Gilbert  and  Lady  Eliza  rode  on  together,  and  parted 
at  the  principal  gate  of  Morphie ;  for,  as  he  declined  her 
invitation  to  enter  on  the  plea  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour, 
she  would  not  suffer  him  to  take  her  to  the  door. 

From  over  the  wall  he  got  a  good  view  of  the  house  as 
he  jogged  down  the  road,  holding  back  the  little  roan, 
who,  robbed  of  company,  was  eager  for  his  stable.  With 
its  steep  roofs  and  square  turrets  at  either  end  of  the 


JIMMY  53 

fagade,  it  stood  in  weather-beaten  dignity  among  the 
elms  and  ashes,  guiltless  of  ornament  or  of  that  outburst 
of  shrubs  and  gravel  which  cuts  most  houses  from  their 
surroundings,  and  is  designed  to  prepare  the  eye  for  the 
transition  from  nature  to  art.  But  Morphie  seemed  an 
accident,  not  a  design;  an  adjunct,  in  spite  of  its  con- 
siderable size,  to  the  pasture  and  the  trees.  The  road 
lay  near  enough  to  it  for  Speid  to  see  the  carved  coat-of- 
arms  over  the  lintel,  and  the  flagged  space  before  the 
door  stretching  between  turret  and  turret.  He  hurried 
on  when  he  had  passed  it,  for  splashes  of  rain  were  begin- 
ning to  blow  in  his  face,  and  the  wind  was  stirring  in  the 
tree-tops. 

Where  a  field  sloped  away  from  the  fringe  of  wood,  he 
paused  a  moment  to  look  at  one  of  those  solid  stone  dove- 
cotes which  are  found  in  the  neighbourhood  of  so  many 
gentlemen's  houses  in  the  northern  lowlands  of  Scotland. 
Its  discoloured  whitewash  had  taken  all  the  mellow  tones 
that  exposure  and  damp  can  give,  and  it  stood,  looking 
like  a  small,  but  ancient  fort,  in  a  hollow  among  the 
ragged  thorn-trees.  At  either  end  of  its  sloping  roof  a 
flight  of  crowsteps  terminated  in  a  stone  ball  cutting  the 
sky.  Just  above  the  string-course  which  ran  round  the 
masonry  a  few  feet  below  the  eaves  was  a  row  of  pigeon- 
holes ;  some  birds  circling  above  made  black  spots  against 
the  gray  cloud. 

Gilbert  buttoned  up  his  coat,  and  let  the  roan  have 
his  way. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    STRIFE    OP   TONGUES 

MR.  BARCLAY  held  the  happy  position  of  chief  bachelor  in 
the  polite  circles  of  Kaims.  Although  he  had  viewed 
with  displeasure  the  advent  of  a  young  and  sporting 
banker  and  the  pretensions  of  the  doctor's  eldest  son, 
who  had  an  agreeable  tenor  voice,  his  position  remained 
unshaken.  Very  young  ladies  might  transfer  their 
interest  to  those  upstarts  and  their  like,  but,  with  the 
matrons  who  ru,led  society,  he  was  still  the  backbone  of 
every  assembly,  and  its  first  male  ornament.  He  was  an 
authority  on  all  local  questions,  and  there  clung  about 
him  that  subdued  but  conscious  gallantry  acceptable  to 
certain  female  minds. 

It  was  a  cold  night  when  he  gave  his  overcoat  and 
muffler  to  the  maid  in  the  hall  of  a  house  which  stood  a 
little  back  from  the  High  Street.  A  buzz  of  talk  came 
to  him  through  an  open  door,  and,  as  he  ascended  the 
stairs,  the  last  notes  of  a  flute  had  just  died  away.  The 
wife  of  the  coastguard  inspector  was  giving  a  party,  at 
which  tea,  conversation,  and  music  were  the  attractions. 
The  expression  which  had  been  arranging  itself  on  his 
face  culminated  as  he  entered  the  drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Somerville,  the  inspector's  wife,  formed  the  link 
in  the  chain  between  town  and  county,  and  numbered 
both  elements  in  her  acquaintance;  her  husband,  who, 
disabled  by  a  wound,  had  retired  from  the  active  branch 
of  his  profession,  being  the  only  representative  of  His 
Majesty's  service  in  the  neighbourhood.  Her  parties, 
therefore,  were  seen  by  Kaims  through  a  certain  halo 

54 


THE  STRIFE  OF  TONGUES  55 

caused  by  the  presence,  outside  the  house,  of  a  string 
of  family  chariots,  and  the  absence,  inside  it,  of  one  of 
Captain  Somerville's  legs. 

The  room  was  half  full.  A  group  of  young  ladies  and 
two  or  three  young  men  were  at  the  piano,  and  near  the 
drawn  curtains  of  the  window  a  whist-table  was  set,  at 
which  four  elderly  people  were  seated  in  the  throes  of 
their  game. 

The  two  Miss  Robertsons  occupied  a  sofa  a  little  apart 
from  the  rest  of  the  company  and  Miss  Hersey  was  talk- 
ing to  Captain  Somerville,  whose  infirmity  forbade  him 
to  rise  and  welcome  individual  guests,  while  it  enabled 
him  to  consistently  entertain  the  principal  ones. 

"You  are  late,  Mr.  Barclay,"  said  the  hostess,  as  she 
held  out  her  hand.  "We  had  been  hoping  for  you  to 
join  the  rubber  which  is  going  on,  but  some  of  our  friends 
were  impatient,  and  so  they  have  settled  down  to  it." 

"I  was  detained,  ma'am,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I  have 
been  out  to  Whanland,  and  nothing  would  content  Speid 
but  that  I  should  stay  and  dine  with  him." 

"See  what  it  is  to  be  such  a  popular  man  !"  exclaimed 
the  coastguard's  lady,  looking  archly  over  her  fan. 

She  was  not  above  the  acceptance  of  the  little  com- 
pliments with  which  Barclay,  who  was  socially  ambitious, 
plied  her. 

"You  flatter  me  sadly,  I  fear,  Mrs.  Somerville;  but 
that  is  your  kindness  and  not  merit." 

"I  have  not  yet  seen  Mr.  Speid,"  said  Mrs.  Somerville, 
"but  I  hear  he  is  a  very  well-looking  young  man.  Quite 
the  dandy,  with  his  foreign  bringing  up." 

"  Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  I  tell  him,"  replied  Barclay. 
"A  very  affable  fellow,  too.  He  and  I  are  great  friends. 
Indeed,  he  is  always  plaguing  me  to  go  out  to  Whanland." 

That  he  had  never  gone  there  on  any  errand  but  busi- 
ness was  a  fact  which  he  did  not  reveal  to  his  hostess. 

"So  many  stories  are  afloat  respecting  his — his  ante- 
cedents," said  the  lady,  dropping  her  eyes,  "one  hardly 


56  THE  INTERLOPER 

knows  what  to  believe.  However,  there  he  is,  master  of 
his — of  the  Speid  property.  I  think  bygones  should  be 
bygones,  don't  you,  Mr.  Barclay?" 

As  she  said  this,  she  glanced  toward  a  corner  of  the 
room  in  which  Lu cilia  Somerville,  a  homely  virgin  in 
white  muslin  and  red  arms,  was  whispering  with  a  girl 
friend. 

Barclay  knew  as  much  as  his  hostess  of  Gilbert's  his- 
tory and  very  little  more,  whatever  his  conjectures  might 
be,  but  he  relapsed  instantly  from  the  man  of  the  world 
into  the  omniscient  family  lawyer 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  raising  two  fingers;  "forbidden 
ground  with  me,  madam — forbidden  ground,  I  fear  !  " 

"Well,  I  will  not  be  naughty,  and  want  to  know  what 
I  should  not  hear,"  said  the  lady.  "I  fear  it  is  a  sad 
world  we  live  in,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"It  would  be  a  much  sadder  one  if  there  were  no  fair 
members  of  your  sex  ready  to  make  it  pleasant  for  us," 
he  replied,  with  a  bow. 

"You  are  incorrigible  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  turned 
away. 

At  this  moment  a  voice  rose  from  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  piano,  whence  the  doctor's  son,  who  had  discov- 
ered an  accompanist  among  the  young  ladies,  sent  forth 
the  first  note  of  one  of  a  new  selection  of  songs.  It  was 
known  to  be  a  new  one,  and  the  company  was  silent. 

"  Give  me  a  glance,  a  witching  glance, 

This  poor  heart  to  illume, 
Or  else  the  rose  that  through  the  dance 
Thy  tresses  did  perfume. 

"  Keep,  cruel  one,  the  ribbon  blue 

From  thy  light  hand  that  flows; 
Keep  it — it  binds  my  fond  heart  true; 
But  oh,  give  me  the  rose  ! " 

"How  well  it  suits  Mr.  Turner's  voice,"  said  Lucilla, 
as  the  singer  paused  in  the  interval  between  the  verses. 

"The  words  are  lovely,"  said  her  friend — "so  full  of 
feeling!" 


THE  STRIFE  OF  TONGUES  57 

"The  sighs  that,  drawn  from  mem'ry's  fount, 

My  aching  bosom  tear — 
O  bid  them  cease  !  nor,  heartless,  count 
My  gestures  of  despair. 

"  Take  all  I  have — the  plaints,  the  tears 

That  hinder  my  repose, 
The  heart  that's  faithful  through  the  years; 
But  oh,  give  me  the  rose  ! " 

A  polite  murmur  ran  through  the  room  as  Mr.  Turner 
laid  down  his  music. 

' '  I  notice  that  our  musical  genius  keeps  his  eyes  fixed 
on  one  particular  spot  as  he  sings,"  observed  an  old  gen- 
tleman at  the  whist-table,  as  he  dealt  the  cards.  "I 
wonder  who  the  young  puppy  is  staring  at." 

"If  you  had  noticed  that  I  threw  away  my  seven  of 
clubs,  it  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose,  and  we 
might  not  have  lost  the  trick,"  remarked  the  spinster 
who  was  his  partner,  acidly. 

"People  have  no  right  to  ask  one  to  play  whist  in  a 
room  where  there  is  such  a  noise  going  on,"  said  the 
first  speaker. 

"Did  I  hear  you  say  whist?"  inquired  the  lady  sar- 
castically. 

Mr.  Barclay  passed  on  to  the  little  group  formed  by 
his  host  and  the  Misses  Robertson. 

"How  are  you,  Barclay?"  said  the  sailor,  looking  up 
from  his  chair,  and  reflecting  that,  though  the  lawyer 
was  more  than  a  dozen  years  his  junior,  and  had  double 
as  many  legs  as  himself,  he  would  not  care  to  change 
places  with  him.  He  was  a  man  of  strong  prejudices. 

"  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  since  our 
afternoon  together  at  Whanland,"  said  Barclay,  pausing 
before  the  sofa  with  a  bow  which  was  as  like  Gilbert's  as 
he  could  make  it. 

"We  go  out  very  little,  sir,"  said  Miss  Hersey. 

"Speid  will  be  a  great  acquisition,"  continued  Bar- 
clay ;  ' '  we  all  feel  the  want  of  a  few  smart  young  fellows 
to  wake  us  up,  don't  we,  Miss  Robertson?" 


58  THE  INTERLOPER 

"We  like  our  cousin  particularly,"  said  Miss  Hersey; 
"it  has  been  a  great  pleasure  to  welcome  him  back." 

Miss  Caroline's  lips  moved  almost  in  unison  with  her 
sister's,  but  she  said  nothing  and  sat  still,  radiating  an 
indiscriminate  pleasure  in  her  surroundings.  She  en- 
joyed a  party. 

"That  must  be  another  arrival  even  later  than  myself," 
remarked  the  lawyer,  as  a  vehicle  was  heard  to  draw  up 
in  the  street  outside.  "I  understand  that  you  expect 
Lady  Eliza  Lamont;  if  so,  that  is  likely  to  be  her  car- 
riage." 

Mrs.  Somerville  began  to  grow  visibly  agitated  as  the 
front  door  shut  and  voices  were  audible  on  the  stair- 
case. In  a  few  moments  Lady  Eliza  Lamont  and  Miss 
Raeburn  were  announced. 

It  was  only  a  sense  of  duty  which  had  brought  Lady 
Eliza  to  Mrs.  Somerville's  party,  and  it  would  hardly 
have  done  so  had  not  Robert  Fullarton  represented  to 
her  that  having  three  times  refused  an  invitation  might 
lay  her  open  to  the  charge  of  incivility.  As  she  entered, 
all  eyes  were  turned  in  her  direction;  she  was  dressed 
in  the  uncompromising  purple  gown  which  had  served 
her  faithfully  on  each  occasion  during  the  last  ten  years 
that  she  had  been  obliged,  with  ill-concealed  impatience, 
to  struggle  into  it.  She  held  her  fan  as  though  it  had 
been  a  weapon  of  offence ;  on  her  neck  was  a  beautifully 
wrought  amethyst  necklace.  Behind  her  came  Cecilia 
in  green  and  white,  with  a  bunch  of  snowdrops  on  her 
breast  and  her  tortoiseshell  comb  in  her  hair. 

"We  had  almost  despaired  of  seeing  your  ladyship," 
said  Mrs.  Somerville;  "and  you,  too,  dear  Miss  Raeburn. 
Pray  come  this  way,  Lady  Eliza.  Where  will  you  like 
to  sit?" 

"I  will  take  that  seat  by  Captain  Somerville,"  said 
the  newcomer,  eyeing  a  small  cane-bottomed  chair  which 
stood  near  the  sofa,  and  longing  to  be  rid  of  her  hostess. 

"Oh,  not  there !"  cried  the  lady.     "Lucilla,  my  dear, 


THE  STRIFE  OF  TONGUES  59 

roll  up  the  velvet  armchair.  Pray,  pray  allow  me,  Lady 
Eliza !  I  cannot  let  you  sit  in  that  uncomfortable  seat 
— indeed  I  cannot !" 

But  her  victim  had  installed  herself. 

"I  am  not  able  to  offer  you  this  one,"  said  Captain 
Somerville;  "for  I  am  a  fixture,  unfortunately." 

"Lady  Eliza,  let  me  beg  you " 

"Much  obliged,  ma'am;  I  am  very  comfortable  here. 
Captain  Somerville,  I  am  glad  to  find  you,  for  I  feared 
you  were  away,"  said  Lady  Eliza.  She  had  a  liking  for 
the  sailor  which  had  not  extended  itself  to  his  wife. 

"I  have  been  up  the  coast  these  last  three  weeks 
inspecting;  my  wife  insisted  upon  my  getting  home  in 
time  for  to-night.  I  had  not  intended  to,  but  I  obeyed 
her,  you  see." 

"And  why  did  you  do  that?" 

"God  knows,"  said  the  sailor. 

The  sound  of  the  piano  checked  their  conversation, 
as  a  young  lady  with  a  roving  eye  was,  after  much  per- 
suasion, beginning  to  play  a  selection  of  operatic  airs. 
To  talk  during  music  was  not  a  habit  of  Lady  Eliza's, 
so  the  two  sat  silent  until  the  fantasia  had  ended  in  an 
explosion  of  trills  and  a  chorus  of  praise  from  the 
listeners. 

"Is  that  your  daughter?"  she  inquired;  "I  move  so 
seldom  from  my  place  that  I  know  very  few  people 
here." 

"Heaven  forbid,  ma'am!  That's  my  Lucy  standing 
by  the  tea-table." 

"You  don't  admire  that  kind  of  music?" 

"  If  anyone  had  presumed  to  make  such  a  noise  on  any 
ship  of  mine,  I'd  have  put  'em  in  irons,"  said  Captain 
Somerville. 

They  both  laughed,  and  Lady  Eliza's  look  rested  on 
Cecilia,  who  had  been  forced  into  the  velvet  chair,  and 
sat  listening  to  Barclay  as  he  stood  before  her  making 
conversation.  Her  eyes  softened. 


6a  THE  INTERLOPER 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  girl  ?"  she  said. 

"I  have  only  seen  one  to  match  her,"  replied  the  old 
man,  "and  that  was  when  I  was  a  midshipman  on  board 
the  flagship  nearly  half  a  century  ago.  It  was  at  a 
banquet  in  a  foreign  port  where  the  fleet  was  being 
entertained.  She  was  the  wife  of  .-some  French  grandee. 
Her  handkerchief  dropped  on  the  floor,  and  when  I 
picked  it  up  she  gave  me  a  curtsey  she  might  have  given 
the  King,  though  I  was  a  boy  more  fit  to  be  birched  at 
school  than  to  go  to  banquets.  Another  young  devil,  a 
year  or  two  my  senior,  said  she  had  done  it  on  purpose 
for  the  flag-lieutenant  to  pick  up  instead  of  me;  he 
valued  himself  on  knowing  the  world." 

Lady  Eliza's  eyes  were  bright  with  interest. 

"I  taught  him  a  little  more  of  it  behind  the  flag- 
lieutenant's  cabin  next  morning,  and  got  my  leave  ashore 
stopped  for  it;  but  it  was  a  rare  good  trouncing,"  added 
Captain  Somerville,  licking  his  lips. 

"I  am  sorry  your  leave  was  stopped,"  said  his  com- 
panion;  "  I  would  have  given  you  more  if  I  had  been  in 
command." 

"You  can't  eat  your  cake  and  have  it,  ma'am — and  I 
enjoyed  my  cake." 

"  I  suppose  you  never  saw  her  again,"  said  she. 

"Never;  but  I  heard  of  her — she  was  guillotined  in 
the  Revolution  a  dozen  years  later.  I  shall  never  forget 
my  feelings  when  I  read  it.  She  made  a  brave  business 
of  it,  I  was  told;  but  no  one  could  look  at  her  and  mis- 
take about  that." 

They  sat  silent  for  some  time,  and,  Mrs.  Somerville 
appropriating  Barclay,  Cecilia  had  leisure  to  turn  to 
Miss  Hersey ;  both  she  and  Lady  Eliza  had  a  regard  for 
the  old  ladies,  though  between  them  there  was  little  in 
common  save  good  breeding.  But  that  can  be  a  strong 
bond. 

"Come,  come;  we  cannot  allow  you  to  monopolise 
Miss  Raeburn  any  more !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Somerville, 


THE  STRIFE  OF  TONGUES  61 

tapping  the  lawyer  playfully  on  the  arm.  "We  need 
you  at  the  tea-table;  duty  first  and  pleasure  after,  you 
know." 

"If  you  will  watch  my  destination,  Mrs.  Somerville, 
you  will  see  that  it  is  purely  duty  which  animates  me," 
said  Barclay,  starting  off  with  a  cup  of  tea  in  one  hand 
and  a  plate  of  sweet  biscuits  in  the  other. 

His  hostess  watched  him  as  he  offered  the  tea  with 
much  action  to  Miss  Caroline  Robertson. 

"Fie,  sir!  fie !"  she  exclaimed,  as  he  returned;  "that 
is  too  bad !" 

"  For  my  part,  I  would  shut  up  all  members  of  your 
sex  after  forty,"  said  he,  rather  recklessly. 

"Indeed?"  said  Mrs.  Somerville,  struggling  with  her 
smile.  She  was  forty-seven. 

"I  meant  sixty,  ma'am — sixty,  of  course,"  gasped 
Barclay,  with  i^redible  maladroitness. 

"That  would  be  very  sad  for  some  of  our  friends,"  she 
observed,  recovering  stoutly  from  the  double  blow  and 
looking  with  great  presence  of  mind  at  Lady  Eliza. 
"How  old  would  you  take  her  ladyship  to  be,  for  in- 
stance?" 

Barclay  happened  to  know  that  Lady  Eliza  would,  if 
she  lived,  keep  her  fifty-third  birthday  in  a  few  months; 
it  was  a  fact  of  which  some  previous  legal  business  had 
made  him  aware. 

"I  should  place  her  at  forty-eight,"  he  replied, 
"though,  of  course,  if  she  understood  the  art  of  dress 
as  you  do,  she  might  look  nearly  as  young  as  yourself." 

"Go  away;  you  are  too  foolish,  Barclay!  Mr.  Tur- 
ner, we  are  talking  of  age:  at  what  age  do  gentlemen 
learn  wisdom?" 

"Never,  very  often,"  replied  Turner,  who,  in  spite  of 
his  tenor  voice,  had  a  sour  nature. 

Barclay  gave  him  a  vicious  glance;  he  did  not  admire 
him  at  the  best  of  times,  and  the  interruption  annoyed 
him.  He  turned  away. 


62  THE  INTERLOPER 

"I  trust  you  have  been  attended  to,  Miss  Robertson," 
said  the  hostess. 

She  despaired  of  separating  her  husband  and  Lady 
Eliza,  and  approached  Miss  Hersey,  whose  intimate  con- 
nection with  the  county  made  her  presence  and  that  of 
her  sister  desirable  adjuncts  to  a  party.  The  old  lady 
made  room  for  her  on  the  sofa. 

"Yes,  many,  many  thanks  to  you;  we  have  enjoyed 
our  evening.  Caroline,  Mrs.  Somerville  is  asking  if  we 
have  all  we  need.  We  have  been  very  much  diverted." 

Miss  Caroline  smiled;  she  had  not  quite  caught  the 
drift  of  her  sister's  words,  but  she  felt  sure  that  every- 
thing was  very  pleasant. 

Mrs.  Somerville  did  not  know  whether  the  vague 
rumours  about  Gilbert's  parentage  which  had  been 
always  prevalent,  and  which  had  sprung  up  afresh  with 
his  return,  had  ever  reached  the  old  ladies'  ears.  Their 
age  and  the  retirement  in  which  they  lived  had  isolated 
them  for  a  long  time,  but  she  reflected  that  they  had 
once  taken  part  in  the  life  surrounding  them  and  could 
hardly  have  remained  in  complete  ignorance.  She 
longed  to  ask  questions. 

"Mr.  Barclay  seems  a  great  favourite  at  Whanland," 
she  began. 

"He  was  there  when  we  went  to  welcome  my  cousin," 
replied  Miss  Hersey;  ;'he  is  his  man  of  business." 

"He  is  most  agreeable — quite  the  society  man  too. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  Mr.  Speid  likes  to  see  him;  it  is  a 
dull  life  for  a  young  gentleman  to  lead  alone  in  the 
house — such  a  sad  house,  too,  what  with  his  poor 
mother's  death  there  and  all  the  unfortunate  talk  there 
was.  But  I  have  never  given  any  credit  to  it,  Miss 
Robertson,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  say  I  was  right.  I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  believe  everything  they  hear." 

The  old  lady  made  no  reply,  staring  at  the  speaker; 
then  her  face  began  to  assume  an  expression  which  Mrs. 
Somerville,  who  did  not  know  her  very  well,  had  never 


THE  STRIFE  OF  TONGUES  63 

seen  on  it,  and  the  surprise  which  this  caused  her  had 
the  effect  of  scattering  her  wits. 

"I  despise  gossip,  as  you  know,"  she  stammered; 
"indeed,  I  always  said — I  always  say — if  there's  anything 
unkind,  do  not  bring  it  to  me;  and  I  said — what  does  it 
matter  to  me?  I  said — his  poor  mother  is  dead  and 
buried,  and  if  there  is  anything  discreditable " 

Miss  Hersey  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  turned  to  her 
sister. 

"Come,  Caroline,  it  is  time  we  went  home.  Ma'am," 
she  said,  curtseying  as  deeply  as  her  age  would  permit 
to  the  astonished  Mrs.  Somerville,  "we  have  outstayed 
your  good  manners.  I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  a 
good-evening." 

The  Misses  Robertson's  house  stood  barely  a  hundred 
yards  from  that  of  Captain  Somerville,  so  Miss  Hersey 
had  decided  that  the  coach  which  was  usually  hired 
when  they  went  abroad  was  unnecessary;  the  maid- 
servant who  was  to  have  presented  herself  to  escort 
them  home  had  not  arrived  when  they  put  on  their 
cloaks,  so  they  went  out  alone  into  the  moonlit  street. 

"What  was  that  she  was  saying,  Hersey?"  inquired 
Miss  Caroline,  as  she  clung  to  her  sister's  arm,  rather 
bewildered  by  her  situation,  but  accepting  it  simply. 

"Mrs.  Somerville  is  no  gentlewoman,  sister.  She  was 
bold  enough  to  bring  up  some  ill-talk  to  which  I  have 
never  been  willing  to  listen." 

"That  was  very  wrong — very  wrong,"  said  Miss 
Caroline. 

Miss  Hersey  was  murmuring  to  herself. 

"Discreditable?"  she  was  saying — "discreditable? 
The  impertinence ! " 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    DOVECOTE    OF    MORPHIE 

THE  vehicle  used  by  Captain  Somerville  on  his  tours  of 
inspection  was  standing  in  the  Whanland  coach-house; 
it  was  an  uncommon-looking  concern,  evolved  from  his 
own  brain  and  built  by  local  talent.  The  body  was 
hung  low,  with  due  regard  to  the  wooden  leg  of  its  owner, 
and  the  large  permanent  hood  which  covered  it  faced 
backwards  instead  of  forwards,  so  that,  when  driving 
in  the  teeth  of  bad  weather,  the  Captain  might  retire 
to  its  shelter,  with  a  stout  plaid  to  cover  his  person  and 
his  snuffbox  to  solace  it. 

This  carriage  was  made  to  convey  four  people — two 
underneath  the  hood  and  one  in  front  on  a  seat  beside 
the  coachman.  On  fine  days  the  sailor  would  drive 
himself,  defended  by  the  Providence  that  watches  over 
his  profession ;  for  he  was  a  poor  whip. 

It  was  a  soft  night,  fresh  and  moist ;  the  moon,  almost 
at  the  full,  was  invisible,  and  only  the  dull  light  which 
pervaded  everything  suggested  her  presence  behind  the 
clouds.  Captain  Somerville,  sitting  with  Gilbert  over 
his  wine  at  the  dining-room  table,  was  enjoying  a 
pleasant  end  to  his  day;  for  Speid,  knowing  that  his 
inspection  work  would  bring  him  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  Whanland,  had  delayed  his  own  dinner  till  a  com- 
paratively late  hour,  and  invited  the  old  gentleman  to 
step  aside  and  share  it  before  returning  to  Kaims. 

A  sound  behind  him  made  the  younger  man  turn  in 
his  chair  and  meet  the  eyes  of  Macquean,  who  had 
entered. 

64 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE  65 

"Stirk's  wantin'  you,"  he  announced,  speaking  to  his 
master,  but  looking  sideways  at  Captain  Somerville. 

"Tell  him  to  wait,"  said  Gilbert;  " I  will  see  him  after- 
wards." 

Macquean  slid  from  the  room. 

The  two  men  talked  on  until  they  were  again  aware 
of  his  presence.  He  stood  midway  between  Speid  and 
the  door,  rubbing  one  foot  against  the  other. 

"It's  Stirk,"  he  said. 

"I  am  not  ready  to  see  him,"  replied  Gilbert  with 
some  impatience;  "I  will  ring  when  I  am." 

When  they  had  risen  from  the  table  and  the  sailor 
had  settled  himself  in  an  armchair,  Gilbert  summoned 
Macquean. 

"What  does  young  Stirk  want  with  me ? "  he  inquired. 

Macquean  cast  a  circular  look  into  space,  as  though 
his  master's  voice  had  come  from  some  unexpected 
quarter. 

"It's  poachers,"  he  said  apologetically. 

"  What  f"  shouted  Somerville. 

"Just  poachers." 

"But  where?     What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Gilbert. 

"It's  poachers,"  said  Macquean  again.  "Stirk's 
come  for  you." 

"Where  are  they?" 

"They're  awa  west  to  net  the  doo'cot  o'  Morphie;  but 
they'll  likely  be  done  by  now,"  added  Macquean. 

"Is  that  what  he  wanted  me  for?"  cried  Gilbert. 

"Ay." 

Captain  Somerville  had  dragged  himself  up  from  his 
chair. 

"  But,  God  bless  my  sinful  soul ! "  he  exclaimed,  "why 
did  you  not  tell  us  ? " 

Macquean  grinned  spasmodically. 

"I'm  sure  I  couldna  say,"  he  replied. 

Gilbert  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  pushed  him  out 
of  his  way,  as  he  ran  into  the  hall  shouting  for  Jimmy; 


66  THE  INTERLOPER 

the  boy  was  waiting  outside  for  admittance,  and  he 
almost  knocked  him  down. 

"It's  they  deevils  frae  Blackport  that's  to  net  the 
doo-cot  o'  Morphie  !"  began  Jimmy  breathlessly. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"I'm  newly  come  from  Blackport  mysel',  an'  I 
heard  it  i'  the  town." 

Speid's  eyes  glittered. 

"Where  is  your  cart ?     We  will  go,  Jimmy." 

"It's  no  here,  sir;  I  ran." 

The  sailor  had  come  to  the  door,  and  was  standing 
behind  his  friend. 

"My  carriage  is  in  the  yard,"  he  said.  "Take  it, 
Speid ;  it  holds  four.  Are  you  going,  boy  ? " 

Jimmy  did  not  think  reply  necessary. 

"Macquean,  run  to  the  farm,  and  get  any  men  you 
can  find.  I  will  go  to  the  stable,  Captain  Somerville, 
and  order  your  phaeton;  my  own  gig  only  holds  two. 
Oh,  if  I  had  but  known  of  this  earlier !  What  it  is  to 
have  a  fool  for  a  servant ! " 

"It  is  worse  to  have  a  stick  for  a  leg,"  said 
Somerville;  "but  I  am  coming,  for  all  that,  Speid. 
Someone  must  drive,  and  someone  must  hold  the 
horse." 

"Do,  sir,  do!"  cried  Gilbert,  as  he  disappeared  into 
the  darkness. 

With  Jimmy's  help,  he  hurried  one  of  his  own  horses 
into  the  shafts  of  the  Captain's  carriage  and  led  it  to  the 
doorstep.  As  the  sailor  gathered  up  the  reins,  Macquean 
returned  breathless. 

"I  didna  see  onybody,"  he  explained;  "they're  a' 
bedded  at  the  farm." 

An  exclamation  broke  from  Gilbert. 

"But  you  should  have  knocked  them  up,  you  num- 
skull !  What  do  you  suppose  I  sent  you  for  ? " 

Macquean  shook  his  head  with  a  pale  smile  of  supe- 
riority. 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE      67 

"They  wadna  rise  for  me,"  he  said;  "I  kenned  that 
when  I  went." 

"Then  you  shall  come  yourself!"  cried  Speid.  "Get 
in,  I  tell  you  !  get  in  behind  with  Jimmy  ! " 

Macquean  shot  a  look  of  dismay  at  his  master,  and 
his  mouth  opened. 

"Maybe  I  could  try  them  again,"  he  began;  "I'll 
awa  and  see." 

"Get  in!"  thundered  Gilbert. 

At  this  moment  Jimmy  Stirk's  arm  came  out  from 
under  the  hood,  and  Macquean  was  hauled  into  the  seat 
beside  him;  Captain  Somerville  took  a  rein  in  each  hand, 
and  they  whirled  down  the  short  drive,  and  swung  out 
into  the  road  with  a  couple  of  inches  to  spare  between 
the  gatepost  and  the  box  of  the  wheel. 

"You  will  hardly  find  that  man  of  yours  very  useful," 
observed  the  sailor,  as  they  were  galloping  down  the 
Morphie  road;  "I  cannot  think  why  you  brought 
him." 

Gilbert  sat  fuming;  exasperation  had  impelled  him  to 
terrify  Macquean,  and,  as  soon  as  they  had  started,  he 
realised  the  futility  of  his  act. 

"The  boy  behind  is  worth  two,"  he  said. 

"There  may  be  four  or  five  of  these  rascals  at  the 
dovecote." 

"We  must  just  do  our  best,"  said  Gilbert,  rather 
curtly. 

Somerville  thought  of  his  leg  and  sighed;  how  dearly 
he  loved  a  fray  no  one  knew  but  himself. 

As  they  approached  Morphie,  they  stopped  to  ex- 
tinguish their  lights,  and  he  began,  in  consequence,  to 
drive  with  what  he  considered  great  caution,  though 
Gilbert  was  still  forced  to  cling  to  the  rail  beside  him; 
Macquean,  under  the  hood,  was  rolled  and  jolted  from 
side  to  side  in  a  manner  that  tended  to  make  him  no 
happier.  His  companion,  seldom  a  waster  of  words, 
gave  him  little  comfort  when  he  spoke. 


68  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Ye've  no  gotten  a  stick  wi'  ye,"  he  observed,  as  they 
bowled  through  the  flying  mud. 

"Na,"  said  Macquean  faintly. 

"Ye'llneedit." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  kent  a  man  that  got  a  richt  skelp  from  ane  o'  they 
Blackport  laddies,"  continued  Jimmy;  "'twas  i'  the 
airm,  too.  It  swelled,  an'  the  doctor  just  wheepit  it  off. 
I  mind  it  well,  for  I  was  passin'  by  the  house  at  the  time, 
an'  I  heard  him  skirl." 

There  was  no  reply  from  the  corner  of  the  hood  and 
they  pressed  on;  only  Somerville,  who  had  a  habit  of 
chirruping  which  attacked  him  the  moment  he  took  up 
the  reins  and  only  left  him  when  he  laid  them  down, 
relieved  the  silence.  Thanks  to  the  invisible  moon, 
the  uniform  gray  ness  which,  though  not  light,  was  yet 
luminous,  made  the  way  plain,  and  the  dark  trees  of 
Morphie  could  be  seen  massed  in  the  distance. 

"I  wonder  they  wad  choose  sic  a  night  as  this," 
remarked  Jimmy;  "it's  a  peety,  too,  for  they'll  likely  see 
us  if  we  dinna  gang  cannylike  under  the  trees.  Can  ye 
run,  Mr.  Macquean?" 

"Ay,  can  I,"  replied  the  other,  grinning  from  under 
the  safe  cover  of  the  darkness.  A  project  was  beginning 
to  form  itself  in  his  mind. 

"There'll  be  maire  nor  three  or  four.  I'd  like  fine  if 
we'd  gotten  another  man  wi'  us;  we  could  hae  ta'en 
them  a'  then.  They're  ill  deevils  to  ficht  wi'." 

"I  could  believe  that,"  said  Macquean. 

His  expression  was  happily  invisible  to  Stirk. 

"  If  I'd  time,  I  could  cut  ye  a  bit  stick  frae  the  hedge," 
said  Jimmy. 

"Heuch!  dinna  mind,"  replied  Macquean  soothingly. 

They  were  nearing  the  place  where  the  dovecote  could 
be  seen  from  the  road  and  Captain  Somerville  pulled  up. 
Gilbert  and  Jimmy  got  out  quietly  and  looked  over  a 
gate  into  the  strip  of  damp  pasture  in  which  the  building 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE  69 

stood.  There  was  enough  light  to  see  its  shape  dis- 
tinctly, standing  as  it  did  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
clearing  among  the  thornbushes.  It  was  not  likely 
that  the  thieves  would  use  a  lantern  on  such  a  night, 
and  the  two  strained  their  eyes  for  the  least  sign  of  any 
moving  thing  that  might  pass  by  the  foot  of  the  bare 
walls.  Macquean's  head  came  stealthily  out  from  under 
the  hood,  as  the  head  of  a  tortoise  peers  from  beneath 
its  shell.  No  sound  came  from  the  dovecote  and  Gilbert 
and  Jimmy  stood  like  images,  their  bodies  pressed  against 
the  gateposts.  Somerville,  on  the  driving-seat,  stared 
into  the  gray  expanse,  his  attention  fixed.  They  had 
drawn  up  under  a  roadside  tree,  for  better  concealment 
of  the  carriage.  Macquean  slipped  out  into  the  road, 
and,  with  a  comprehensive  glance  at  the  three  heads 
all  turned  in  one  direction,  disappeared  like  a  wraith 
into  the  night. 

Presently,  to  the  straining  ears  of  the  watchers  came 
the  sound  of  a  low  whistle. 

"There,"  said  Speid  under  his  breath,  "did  you  hear 
that,  Jimmy?" 

The  boy  nodded. 

"Let  Macquean  hold  the  horse,"  burst  out  Somerville, 
who  was  rolling  restlessly  about  on  the  box.  "I  might 
be  of  use  even  should  I  arrive  rather  late.  At  least,  I 
can  sit  on  a  man's  chest." 

At  this  moment  Jimmy  looked  into  the  back  of  the 
carriage." 

"Mr.  Macquean's  awa !"  he  ejtclaimed  as  loudly  as  he 
dared. 

Gilbert  ground  his  teeth;  only  the  necessity  for 
silence  stopped  the  torrent  which  rose  to  the  sailor's 
lips. 

Speid  and  Jimmy  slid  through  the  bars  of  the  gate; 
they  dared  not  open  it  nor  get  over  it  for  fear  it  should 
rattle  on  its  hinges.  They  kept  a  little  way  apart  until 
they  had  reached  the  belt  of  thorn-trees,  and,  under 


70  THE  INTERLOPER 

cover  of  these,  they  drew  together  again  and  listened. 
Once  they  heard  a  boot  knock  against  a  stone;  they 
crept  on  to  the  very  edge  of  their  shelter,  until  they  were 
not  thirty  yards  from  the  dovecote.  The  door  by  which 
it  was  entered  was  on  the  farther  side  from  the  road,  and 
the  pigeon-holes  ran  along  the  opposite  wall  a  few  feet 
below  the  roof.  Three  men  were  standing  by  the  door, 
their  outlines  just  distinguishable.  Jimmy  went  on  his 
hands  and  knees,  and  began  to  crawl,  with  that  motion 
to  which  the  serpent  was  condemned  in  Eden,  towards 
a  patch  of  broom  that  made  a  spot  like  an  island  in  the 
short  stretch  of  open  ground  between  the  thorns  and 
the  building,  Gilbert  following. 

Now  and  then  they  paused  to  listen,  but  the  voices 
which  they  could  now  hear  ran  on  undisturbed,  and, 
when  they  had  reached  their  goal,  they  were  close 
enough  to  the  dovecote  to  see  a  heap  lying  at  its  foot 
which  they  took  to  be  a  pile  of  netting:  Evidently  the 
thieves  had  not  begun  their  night's  work. 

The  nearest  man  approached  the  heap  and  began  to 
shake  it  out. 

"I'll  gi'e  ye  a  lift  up,  Robbie,"  said  one  of  the  voices; 
"there's  stanes  stickin'  out  o'  the  wa'  at  the  west  side. 
I  had  a  richt  look  at  it  Sabbath  last  when  the  kirk  was 
in." 

"My!  but  you're  a  sinfu'  man!"  exclaimed  Robbie. 

"We're  a'  that,"  observed  a  third  speaker  piously. 

Two  of  the  men  took  the  net,  and  went  round  the 
dovecote  wall  till  they  found  the  stones  of  which  their 
companion  had  spoken;  these  rough  steps  had  been 
placed  there  for  the  convenience  of  anyone  who  might 
go  up  to  mend  the  tiling. 

"Lie  still  till  they  are  both  up,"  whispered  Gilbert. 
"There  are  two  to  hold  the  net,  and  one  to  go  in  and  beat 
out  the  birds." 

They  crouched  breathless  in  the  broom  till  they  saw 
two  figures  rise  above  the  slanting  roof  between  them 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE      71 

and  the  sky.  Each  had  a  length  of  rope  which  he 
secured  round  one  of  the  stone  balls  standing  at  either 
end  above  the  crowsteps;  it  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
business  had  been  carefully  planned.  Inside  the  dove- 
cote, a  cooing  and  gurgling  showed  that  the  birds  were 
awakened. 

The  two  men  clambered  down  by  the  crowsteps,  each 
with  his  rope  wound  round  his  arm  and  supporting  him 
as  he  leaned  over  to  draw  the  net  over  the  pigeon-holes. 

"Now  then,  in  ye  go,"  said  Robbie's  voice. 

The  key  was  in  the  door,  for  the  third  man  unlocked 
it  and  entered. 

Speid  and  Jimmy  Stirk  rose  from  the  broom;  they 
could  hear  the  birds  flapping  among  the  rafters  as  the 
intruder  entered,  and  the  blows  of  his  stick  on  the  inner 
sides  of  the  walls.  They  ran  up,  and  Gilbert  went 
straight  to  the  open  doorway  and  looked  in.  His 
nostrils  were  quivering;  the  excitement  which,  with  him, 
lay  strong  and  dormant  behind  his  impassive  face,  was 
boiling  up.  It  would  have  been  simple  enough  to  turn 
the  key  of  the  dovecote  on  its  unlawful  inmate,  but  he 
did  not  think  of  that. 

"You  scoundrel!"  he  exclaimed — "you  damned 
scoundrel!" 

The  man  turned  round  like  an  animal  trapped,  and 
saw  his  figure  standing  against  the  faint  square  of  light 
formed  by  the  open  door;  he  had  a  stone  in  his  hand 
which  he  was  just  about  to  throw  up  into  the  fluttering, 
half -awakened  mass  above  his  head.  He  flung  it  with 
all  his  might  at  Speid,  and,  recognising  his  only  chance 
of  escape,  made  a  dash  at  the  doorway.  It  struck 
Gilbert  upon  the  cheek-bone,  and  its  sharp  edge  laid  a 
slanting  gash  across  his  face.  He  could  not  see  in  the 
blackness  of  the  dovecote,  so  he  leaped  back,  and  the 
thief,  meeting  with  no  resistance,  was  carried  stumbling 
by  his  own  rush  a  few  feet  into  the  field,  dropping  his 
stick  as  he  went.  As  he  recovered  himself,  he  turned 


72  THE  INTERLOPER 

upon  his  enemy;  he  was  a  big  man,  bony  and  heavy, 
and,  had  he  known  it,  the  want  of  light  was  all  in  his 
favour  against  a  foe  like  Gilbert  Speid,  to  whom  self- 
defence,  with  foil  or  fist,  was  the  most  fascinating  of 
sciences.  Flight  did  not  occur  to  him,  for  he  was  heavy- 
footed,  and  he  saw  that  his  antagonist  was  smaller  than 
himself. 

Speid  cursed  the  darkness;  he  liked  doing  things 
neatly,  and  the  situation  was  sweet  to  him ;  it  was  some 
time  since  he  had  stood  up  to  any  man,  either  in  play 
or  in  earnest.  He  determined  to  dodge  his  opponent 
until  he  had  reversed  their  positions  and  brought  him 
round  with  his  back  to  the  whitewash  of  the  dovecote ; 
at  the  present  moment  he  stood  against  the  dark  back- 
ground of  the  trees.  The  two  closed  together,  and,  for 
some  minutes,  the  sound  of  blows  and  heavy  breathing 
mingled  with  the  quiet  of  the  night. 

The  blood  was  dripping  down  Gilbert's  face,  for  the 
stone  had  cut  deep;  he  was  glad  the  wound  was  below 
his  eye,  where  the  falling  drops  could  not  hamper  his 
sight.  He  guarded  himself  very  carefully,  drawing  his 
enemy  slowly  after  him,  until  he  stood  silhouetted 
sharply  against  the  whitewash.  He  looked  very  large 
and  heavy,  but  the  sight  pleased  Speid;  he  felt  as  the 
bull  feels  when  he  shakes  his  head  before  charging;  his 
heart  sang  aloud  and  wantonly  in  his  breast.  Now  that 
he  had  got  the  position  he  desired,  he  turned  from 
defence  to  attack,  and  with  the  greater  interest  as  his 
antagonist  was  no  mean  fighter.  He  had  received  a 
blow  just  below  the  elbow,  and  one  on  the  other  side 
of  his  face,  and  his  jaw  was  stiff.  He  grew  cooler  and 
more  steady  as  the  moments  went  by.  He  began  to 
place  his  blows  carefully,  and  his  experience  told  him 
that  they  were  taking  effect.  Breath  and  temper  were 
failing  his  enemy;  seeing  this,  he  took  the  defensive 
again,  letting  him  realise  the  futility  of  his  strength 
against  the  skill  he  met.  Suddenly,  the  man  rushed  in, 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE  73 

hitting  wildly  at  him.  He  was  struck  under  the  jaw  by 
a  blow  that  had  the  whole  weight  of  Gilbert's  body 
behind  it,  and  he  went  over  backwards,  and  lay  with 
his  face  to  the  sky.  He  had  had  enough. 

Meanwhile,  the  two  men  on  the  dovecot  had  been  a 
good  deal  startled  by  hearing  Gilbert's  exclamation  and 
the  noise  of  the  rush  through  the  door.  One,  who  had 
fastened  the  net  on  the  eaves,  clambered  up  the  crow- 
steps,  and,  holding  fast  to  the  stone  ball,  looked  over 
to  see  that  his  friend's  design  had  been  frustrated  by 
someone  who  was  doing  his  utmost  to  destroy  his 
chances  of  escape.  He  came  down  quickly  to  the 
lower  end  of  the  roof,  meaning  to  drop  to  the  ground 
and  go  to  his  assistance ;  but  he  found  himself  confronted 
by  Jimmy  Stirk,  who  had  sidled  round  the  walls,  and 
stood  below,  looking  from  himself  to  his  partner  with 
the  air  of  a  terrier  who  tries  to  watch  two  rat-holes  at 
once.  A  few  birds  had  come  out  of  the  pigeon-holes, 
and  were  struggling,  terrified,  in  the  meshes.  The  two 
men  did  the  most  sensible  thing  possible:  they  dropped, 
one  from  either  end  of  the  tiling,  and  ran  off  in  opposite 
directions. 

Unable  to  pursue  both,  the  boy  pounced  upon  the  man 
on  his  left,  and  would  have  laid  hands  on  him  as  he 
landed,  had  he  not  slipped  upon  a  piece  of  wet  mud  and 
stumbled  forward  against  the  wall.  When  he  recovered 
himself,  his  prey  had  put  twenty  yards  between  them, 
and  was  running  hard  towards  the  thorn-trees.  The 
net  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  the  pigeons  were 
escaping  from  it,  flying  in  agitated  spirals  above  the 
dovecote;  their  companions  were  emerging  from  the 
holes,  dismayed  with  the  outraged  dismay  felt  by  the 
feathered  world  when  its  habits  are  disturbed.  The  air 
was  a  whirl  of  birds.  Jimmy  gathered  himself  together 
and  gave  chase  with  all  his  might. 

Captain  Somerville's  state  of  mind  as  he  watched 
Gilbert  and  Jimmy  Stirk  disappear  was  indescribable; 


74  THE  INTERLOPER 

as  he  sat  on  the  box  and  the  minutes  went  by,  his  feelings 
grew  more  poignant,  for  impotent  wrath  is  a  dreadful 
thing.  Had  he  happened  upon  Macquean,  he  would 
have  been  congenially  occupied  for  some  time,  but  the 
darkness  had  swallowed  Macquean,  and  there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  but  sit  and  gaze  into  the  grayness 
of  the  field. 

At  last  he  heard  what  he  fancied  was  Speid's  voice  and 
the  clattering  of  feet  upon  the  dovecote  roof.  The  night 
was  still,  and,  though  middle-age  was  some  way  behind 
him,  his  hearing  was  acute.  He  found  his  position 
beyond  his  endurance. 

The  horse  was  old,  too,  and  stood  quiet  while  he 
descended  painfully  to  the  ground.  He  led  him  to  the 
gatepost  and  tied  him  to  it  securely ;  to  squeeze  between 
the  bars  as  Jimmy  and  Gilbert  had  done  was  impossible 
for  him,  so  he  opened  it  with  infinite  caution,  and  closed 
it  behind  him.  Then  he  set  out  as  best  he  could  for  the 
thorn-trees. 

His  wooden  leg  was  a  great  hindrance  in  the  moist 
pasture,  for  the  point  sunk  into  the  earth  as  he  walked, 
and  added  to  his  exertions.  He  paused  in  the  shadow 
of  the  branches,  as  his  friends  had  done,  and  halted  by 
a  gnarled  bush  with  an  excrescence  of  tangled  arms. 
While  he  stood,  he  heard  steps  running  in  his  direction 
from  the  dovecote.  He  held  his  breath. 

A  figure  was  coming  towards  him,  making  for  the 
trees.  As  it  passed,  the  sailor  took  firm  hold  of  a  stem 
to  steady  himself,  and  stuck  out  his  wooden  leg.  The 
man  went  forward  with  a  crash,  his  heels  in  the  air,  his 
head  in  the  wet  moss,  and  before  he  knew  what  had 
happened,  a  substantial  weight  had  subsided  upon  his 
back. 

"My  knife  is  in  my  hand,"  observed  Captain  Somer- 
ville,  laying  the  thin  edge  of  his  metal  snuff-box  against 
the  back  of  the  thief's  neck,  "but,  if  you  move,  it  will 
be  in  your  gizzard." 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE      75 

By  the  time  his  absence  was  discovered,  Macquean 
had  put  some  little  distance  between  himself  and  the 
carriage.  For  the  first  few  minutes  of  his  flight  he  crept 
like  a  shadow,  crouching  against  the  stone  wall  which 
flanked  one  side  of  the  road,  and  terrified  lest  his  steps 
should  be  heard.  He  paused  now  and  then  and  stood 
still  to  listen  for  the  sound  of  pursuit,  taking  courage  as 
each  time  the  silence  remained  unbroken.  The  white 
face  of  a  bullock  standing  by  a  gate  made  his  heart 
jump  as  it  loomed  suddenly  upon  him.  When  he  felt 
safe,  he  took  his  way  with  a  bolder  aspect — not  back 
towards  Whanland,  but  forward  toward  Morphie  House. 
He  burned  with  desire  to  announce  to  someone  the 
sensational  events  that  were  happening,  and  he  realised 
very  strongly  that  it  would  be  well  to  create  an  excuse 
for  his  own  defection. 

He  was  panting  when  he  pealed  the  bell  and  knocked 
at  the  front-door,  feeling  that  the  magnitude  of  his 
errand  demanded  an  audience  of  Lady  Eliza  herself. 
It  was  opened  by  a  maidservant  with  an  astonished 
expression. 

"Whaur's  her  ladyship?"  said  Macquean.  "A'm  to 
see  her." 

"What  is't?"  inquired  the  girl,  closing  the  door  until 
it  stood  barely  a  foot  open. 

"A'm  seeking  her  leddyship,  a'  tell  ye." 

She  looked  at  him  critically. 

"Who  is  there?"  said  a  cool  voice  from  the  staircase. 

The  maid  stood  back,  and  Cecilia  came  across  the  hall. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  she  asked,  as  the  lamp- 
light struck  Macquean's  bald  head,  making  it  shine  in 
the  darkness. 

"From  Whanland,"  replied  he.  "You'll  be  Miss 
Raeburn  ?  Eh !  There's  awfu'  work  down  i'  the  field 
by  the  doo'cot !  The  laird's  awa'  there,  an'  Jimmy 
Stirk,  an'  the  ane-leggit  Captain-body  frae  Kaims. 
They're  to  net  it  an'  tak'  the  birds." 


76  THE  INTERLOPER 

"What?"  exclaimed  Cecilia,  puzzled,  and  seeing 
visions  of  the  inspector  engaged  in  a  robbery.  "Do 
you  mean  Captain  Somerville  ? " 

"A'  do,  indeed,"  said  Macquean,  wagging  his  head, 
"an*  a'm  sure  a'  hope  he  may  be  spared.  He's  an  auld 
man  to  be  fechtin'  wi'  poachers,  but  we're  a'  in  the  hands 
o*  Providence." 

A  light  began  to  break  on  Cecilia. 

"Then,  are  the  poachers  at  the  dovecote?  Is  that 
what  you  have  come  to  say  ? " 

Macquean  assented. 

The  maid  servant,  who  had  been  listening  open- 
mouthed,  now  flew  up  to  Lady  Eliza's  bedroom,  and 
found  her  mistress  beginning  to  prepare  herself  for  the 
night.  She  had  not  put  off  her  dress,  but  her  wig  stood 
on  a  little  wooden  stand  on  the  toilet-table.  She  made 
a  snatch  at  it  as  the  girl  burst  in  with  her  story. 

"Cecilia,  what  is  all  this  nonsense?"  exclaimed  Lady 
Eliza,  seeing  her  adopted  niece's  figure  appear  on  the 
threshold.  "  (Stop  your  havering,  girl,  till  I  speak  to 
Miss  Raeburn.)  Come  here,  Cecilia.  I  can't  hear  my 
own  voice  for  this  screeching  limmer.  (Be  quiet,  girl.) 
What  is  it,  Cecilia?  Can't  you  answer,  child?" 

The  maid  had  all  the  temperament  of  the.  female 
domestic  servant,  and  was  becoming  hysterical. 

"Put  her  out!"  cried  Lady  Eliza.  "Cecilia!  put  her 
into  the  passage." 

"There's  a  man  downstairs,"  sobbed  the  maid,  who 
had  talked  herself  into  a  notion  that  Macquean  was  a 
poacher  trying  to  effect  an  entrance  into  the  house. 

"A  man,  is  there?  I  wish  there  were  more,  and  then 
we  should  not  have  a  parcel  of  whingeing*  women  to 
serve  us !  I  wish  I  could  put  you  all  away,  and  get  a 
few  decent  lads  in,  instead.  Take  her  away,  Cecilia,  I 
I  tell  you!" 

When  the  door  was  shut  behind  the  servant,  and 
*  Whining. 


THE  DOVECOTE  OF  MORPHIE  77 

Lady  Eliza  had  directed  her  niece  to  have  the  stablemen 
sent  with  all  despatch  to  the  dovecote,  she  drew  a  heavy 
plaid  shawl  from  the  cupboard  and  went  downstairs  to 
sift  the  matter.  Her  wig  was  replaced  and  she  had 
turned  her  skirt  up  under  the  plaid. 

Macquean  was  still  below.  Having  delivered  himself 
of  his  news,  he  had  no  wish  to  be  sent  out  again.  He 
did  not  know  where  the  servants'  hall  might  be,  or  he 
would  have  betaken  himself  there,  and  the  maid  had  fled 
to  her  own  attic  and  locked  herself  in  securely. 

"Have  you  got  a  lantern?"  said  Lady  Eliza  over  the 
banisters.  "I  am  going  out,  and  you  can  light  me." 

"Na,"  said  Macquean,  staring. 

Without  further  comment  she  went  out  of  the  house, 
beckoning  him  to  follow.  She  crossed  the  yard  and 
opened  the  stable-door,  to  find  Cecilia,  a  cloak  over  her 
shoulders,  caressing  the  nose  of  the  bay  mare.  Seeing 
the  maid's  distracted  state  of  mind,  she  had  roused  the 
men  herself.  A  small  lantern  stood  on  the  corn-bin. 
The  mare  whinnied  softly,  but  Lady  Eliza  took  no  notice 
of  her. 

"Here,  my  dear;  give  the  lantern  to  Macquean,"  she 
exclaimed.  "  I  am  going  to  see  what  is  ado  in  the  field." 

"It  gives  little  light,"  said  Cecilia.  "The  men  have 
taken  the  others  with  them." 

"Ye'd  best  bide  whaur  ye  are,"  said  Macquean  sud- 
denly. "It's  terrible  dark." 

Lady  Eliza  did  not  hear  him.  She  had  gone  into  the 
harness-room,  and  the  two  women  were  searching  every 
corner  for  another  lantern.  Finding  the  search  fruitless, 
they  went  into  the  coach-house.  There  was  no  vestige 
of  such  a  thing,  but,  in  a  corner,  stood  a  couple  of 
rough  torches  which  had  been  used  by  the  guizardso  * 
at  Hogmanay. 

When  Macquean,  compelled  by  Lady  Eliza,  had  lit 

*  Masqueraders,  who,  in  Scotland,  go  from  house  to  house  at 
Hogmanay,  or  the  last  day  of  the  year. 


78  THE  INTERLOPER 

one,  she  ordered  him  to  precede  her,  and  they  left  the 
stable,  Cecilia  following.  The  arms  of  the  trees  stood 
out  like  black  rafters  as  they  went  under  them,  the 
torchlight  throwing  them  out  theatrically,  as  though 
they  made  a  background  to  some  weird  stage  scene. 
Occasionally,  when  Macquean  lowered  the  light,  their 
figures  went  by  in  a  fantastic  procession  on  the  trunks 
of  the  limes  and  ashes.  The  darkness  overhead  seemed 
measureless.  The  fallen  twigs  cracked  at  their  tread, 
and  beech-nuts  underfoot  made  dry  patches  on  the 
damp  moss  among  the  roots.  As  they  emerged  from 
the  trees  and  looked  down  the  slope,  they  saw  the  stable- 
men's lanterns  and  heard  the  voices  of  men. 

Lady  Eliza  redoubled  her  pace.  When  they  had 
almost  come  to  the  dovecote,  she  told  Macquean  to  hold 
up  his  torch.  Cecilia,  whose  gown  had  caught  on  a 
briar,  and  who  had  paused  to  disentangle  herself, 
hurried  after  her  companions,  and  rejoined  them  just 
as  he  raised  the  light. 

As  she  looked,  the  glare  fell  full  upon  the  walls,  and 
on  the  figure  of  Gilbert  Speid  standing  with  the  blood 
running  down  his  face. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    LOOKING-GLASS 

GILBERT  hurried  forward  as  he  saw  Lady  Eliza. 

"The  pigeons  are  safe,"  he  said.  "I  have  locked  up 
two  of  these  rascals  in  the  dovecote.  The  third,  I  fear, 
has  got  away." 

"Indeed,  sir,  I  am  vastly  obliged  to  you,"  exclaimed 
she.  "You  seem  considerably  hurt." 

"He  has  had  a  stiff  fight,  ma'am,"  said  Captain 
Somerville. 

"You  are  very  good  to  have  protected  my  property," 
she  continued,  looking  at  the  two  gentlemen.  "All  I 
can  do  now  is  to  send  for  the  police  from  Kaims,  unless 
the  dovecote  is  a  safe  place  for  them  until  morning." 

"Young  Stirk  has  gone  to  Kaims  with  my  carriage, 
said  Somerville,  "for  the  door  is  not  very  strong,  and  I 
fancy  your  men  have  no  wish  to  watch  it  all  night." 

"It  seems,"  said  Lady  Eliza,  turning  to  Speid,  "that 
I  have  only  to  be  in  a  difficulty  for  you  to  appear." 

Her  voice  was  civil,  and  even  pleasant,  but  something 
in  it  rang  false.  Gilbert  felt  the  undercurrent  instinc- 
tively, for,  though  he  had  no  idea  of  her  real  sentiments 
towards  himself,  he  recognised  her  as  a  person  in  whose 
doings  the  unexpected  was  the  natural. 

"I  think  I  can  do  nothing  more,"  he  said,  with  a  for- 
mality which  came  to  him  at  times,  "so  I  will  wish  your 
ladyship  a  good-night." 

"May  I  ask  where  you  are  going,  sir,  and  how  you 
propose  to  get  there  in  that  condition?" 

"It  is  nothing,"  replied  Gilbert,  "and  Whanland  is  a 

79 


8o  THE  INTERLOPER 

bare  four  miles  from  here.  With  your  permission  I  will 
start  at  once." 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  Speid !  You  will  do  nothing  of  the 
sort.  Do  you  suppose  I  shall  allow  you  to  walk  all  that 
way,  or  to  leave  Morphie  till  your  face  has  been  attended 
to?  Come,  Captain  Somerville,  let  us  go  to  the  house. 
Sir,  I  insist  upon  your  coming  with  US'." 

The  men  from  the  stable  were  instructed  to  remain  at 
the  dovecote  door  until  Jimmy  should  return  with  the 
police,  and  Gilbert  recognised  Macquean  as  Lady  Eliza 
again  drove  him  forward  to  light  the  party  back  under 
the  trees.  He  made  no  comment,  feeling  that  the 
moment  was  unsuitable,  and  being  somewhat  interested 
in  the  fact  that  a  young  woman,  of  whose  features  he 
could  only  occasionally  catch  a  glimpse,  was  walking 
beside  him ;  as  the  torchlight  threw  fitful  splashes  across 
her  he  could  see  the  outline  of  a  pale  face  below  a  crown 
of  rather  elaborately  dressed  dark  hair.  Lady  Eliza 
had  directed  him  to  follow  his  servant,  and  was  herself 
delayed  by  the  sailor's  slow  progress.  Though  he  had 
never  seen  his  companion  before,  she  was  known  to  him 
by  hearsay.  Her  silent  step,  and  the  whiteness  of  her 
figure  and  drapery  against  the  deep  shadows  between 
the  trees,  gave  him  a  vague  feeling  that  he  was  walking 
with  Diana.  He  grew  aware  of  his  bloody  face,  and  im- 
mediately became  self-conscious. 

"I  fear  I  am  a  most  disagreeable  object,  Miss  Rae- 
burn,"  he  said. 

"I  had  not  observed  it,  sir,"  she  replied. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  you  must  think  me  unpleasant 
company  in  this  condition,  all  the  same." 

"I  can  think  of  nothing  but  that  you  have  saved  my 
aunt's  pigeons.  She  says  little,  but  I  know  she  is 
grateful.  There  has  always  been  a  large  flock  at 
Morphie,  and  their  loss  would  have  vexed  her  very 
much." 

"I  owe  Stirk — Stirk,  the  young  cadger — a  debt  for 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  81 

bringing  me  word  of  what  was  going  to  happen.  He 
heard  of  it  in  Blackport,  and  came  straight  to  tell  me." 

"I  wonder  why  he  went  to  you  instead  of  warning 
us,"  said  she. 

"We  are  rather  friendly,  he  and  I.  I  suppose  he 
thought  he  would  like  the  excitement,  and  that  I  should 
like  it,  too.  He  was  not  wrong,  for  I  do,"  replied 
Gilbert,  unconsciously  using  the  present  tense. 

"Then  what  has  brought  Captain  Somerville?  It  all 
happened  so  suddenly  that  there  has  been  no  time  for 
surprise.  But  it  is  strange  to  find  him  here." 

"He  was  dining  with  me  when  the  news  was  brought, 
and  he  insisted  on  coming.  He  managed  to  trip  a  man 
up,  and  sit  on  him  till  Stirk  and  I  came  to  his  help.  He 
did  it  with  his  wooden  leg,  I  believe,"  said  Gilbert, 
smiling  in  spite  of  his  injured  face. 

Cecilia  laughed  out. 

"I  think  that  is  charming,"  she  said. 

Gilbert  had  known  many  women  more  or  less  inti- 
mately, but  never  one  of  his  own  countrywomen.  He 
had  heard  much  of  the  refinement  and  delicacy  of  the 
British  young  lady.  This  one,  who  seemed,  from  the 
occasional  view  he  could  obtain  of  her,  and  from  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  to  possess  both  these  qualities  in  the 
highest  degree,  struck  him  as  having  a  different  attitude 
towards  things  in  general  to  the  one  he  had  been  led  to 
expect  in  the  class  of  femininity  she  represented.  As 
she  had  herself  said,  there  had  been  no  time  for  surprise, 
and  he  now  suddenly  found  that  he  was  surprised — 
surprised  by  her  presence,  surprised  to  find  that  she 
seemed  to  feel  neither  agitation  nor  any  particular 
horror  at  what  had  happened.  He  had  known  women 
in  Spain  who  found  their  most  cherished  entertainment 
in  the  bull-ring,  but  he  had  never  met  one  who  would 
have  taken  the  scene  she  had  broken  in  upon  so  calmly. 

The  changed  customs  of  our  modern  life  have  made  it 
hard  to  realise  that,  in  the  days  when  Gilbert  and  Cecilia 


82  THE  INTERLOPER 

met  by  torchlight,  it  was  still  a  proof  of  true  sensibility 
to  swoon  when  confronted  by  anything  unusual,  and 
that  ladies  met  cows  in  the  road  with  the  same  feelings 
with  which  they  would  now  meet  man-eating  tigers. 
Indeed,  the  woman  of  the  present  moment,  in  the  face 
of  such  an  encounter,  would  probably  make  some  more 
or  less  sensible  effort  towards  her  own  safety,  but,  at 
the  time  of  which  I  speak,  there  was  nothing  for  a  lady 
to  do  at  the  approach  of  physical  difficulties  but  subside 
as  rapidly  as  possible  on  to  the  cleanest  part  of  the  path. 
But  Cecilia  had  been  brought  up  differently.  Lady 
Eliza  led  so  active  a  life,  and  was  apt  to  require  her  to 
do  such  unusual  things,  that  she  had  seen  too  many 
emergencies  to  be  much  affected  by  them.  There  was 
a  deal  of  the  elemental  woman  in  Cecilia,  and  she  had 
just  come  too  late  to  see  the  elemental  man  in  Speid 
brush  away  the  layer  of  civilisation,  and  return  to 
his  natural  element  of  fight.  She  was  almost  sorry  she 
had  been  too  late. 

She  walked  on  beside  him,  cool,  gracious,  the  folds  of 
her  skirt  gathered  up  into  her  hand,  and  he  longed  for 
the  lamp-lit  house,  that  he  might  see  her  clearly. 

"The  man  with  the  torch  is  your  servant,  is  he  not  ? " 
said  she.  "He  told  me  he  had  come  from  Whanland." 

"He  is,"  replied  Speid;  "but  how  long  he  will  remain 
so  is  another  matter.  I  am  very  angry  with  him — dis- 
gusted, in  fact." 

"What  has  he  done,  sir,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Everything  that  is  most  intolerable.  He  drove  me 
to  the  very  end  of  my  patience,  in  the  first  instance." 

"  How  long  is  your  patience,  Mr.  Speid  ? " 

"It  was  short  to-night,"  replied  Gilbert. 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  brought  him  here  to  be  of  some  use,  and 
while  I  was  looking  over  the  wall  for  these  thieving 
ruffians,  he  ran  away." 

"He  does  not  look  very  brave,"  observed  Cecilia,  a 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  83 

smile  flickering  round  her  lips.  "He  arrived  at  the 
door,  and  rang  up  the  house,  and  I  could  see  that  he 
was  far  from  comfortable." 

"He  will  be  more  uncomfortable  to-morrow,"  said 
Gilbert  grimly. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Cecilia  softly.  "It  must  be  a 
terrible  thing  to  be  really  afraid." 

"It  is  inexcusable  in  a  man." 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  replied  she  slowly,  "and  yet " 

"And  yet — you  think  I  should  put  up  with  him?  He 
has  enraged  me  often  enough,  but  he  has  been  past  all 
bearing  to-night." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  to  send  him  away  ?  He  has  been 
years  at  Whanland,  has  he  not?" 

"He  has,"  said  Gilbert;  "but  let  us  forget  him,  Miss 
Raeburn,  he  makes  me  furious." 

When  they  reached  the  house,  Lady  Eliza  led  the  way 
to  the  dining-room,  and  despatched  such  servants  as 
were  to  be  found  for  wine.  Her  hospitable  zeal  might 
even  have  caused  a  fresh  dinner  to  be  cooked,  had  not 
the  two  men  assured  her  that  they  had  only  left  the  table 
at  Whanland  to  come  to  Morphie. 

"If  I  may  have  some  water  to  wash  the  cut  on  my 
face,  I  will  make  it  a  little  more  comfortable,"  said 
Speid. 

He  was  accordingly  shown  into  a  gloomy  bedroom  on 
the  upper  floor,  and  the  maid  who  had  opened  the  door 
to  Macquean,  having  recovered  from  her  hysterics, 
was  assiduous  in  bringing  him  hot  water  and  a  sponge. 
As  the  room  was  unused,  it  had  all  the  deadness  of  a 
place  unfrequented  by  humanity,  and  the  heavy  curtains 
of  the  bed  and  immense  pattern  of  birds  and  branches 
which  adorned  the  wallpaper  gave  everything  a  lugu- 
brious look.  He  examined  his  cut  at  the  looking-glass 
over  the  mantelshelf,  an  oblong  mirror  with  a  tarnished 
gilt  frame. 

The  stone  which  had  struck  him  was  muddy,  and  he 


84  THE  INTERLOPER 

found,  when  he  had  washed  the  wound,  that  it  was 
deeper  than  he  supposed.  It  ached  and  smarted  as  he 
applied  the  sponge,  for  the  flint  had  severed  the  flesh 
sharply.  As  he  dried  his  wet  cheek  in  front  of  the  glass, 
he  saw  a  figure  which  was  entering  the  room  reflected 
in  it. 

"Lady  Eliza  has  sent  me  with  this.  Can  I  help  you, 
sir?"  said  Cecilia  rather  stiffly,  showing  him  a  little  case 
containing  plaster. 

She  held  a  pair  of  scissors  in  her  hand.     He  turned. 

"Ah!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  saw  the  long,  red  scar; 
"that  is  really  bad  !  Do,  pray,  use  this  plaster.  Look, 
I  will  cut  it  for  you." 

And  she  opened  the  case,  and  began  to  divide  its 
contents  into  strips. 

"You  are  very  good,"  he  said  awkwardly,  as  he 
watched  the  scissors  moving. 

She  did  not  reply. 

"I  had  no  intention  of  disturbing  the  house  in  this 
way,"  he  continued;  "it  is  all  owing  to  Macquean's 
imbecility.  You  need  never  have  known  anything  till 
to-morrow  morning." 

"You  are  very  angry  with  Macquean,"  said  Cecilia. 
"I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  his  leaving  a  place  where  he 
has  lived  so  long.  But  you  will  be  cooler  to-morrow,  I 
am  sure.  Now,  Mr.  Speid,  I  have  made  this  ready. 
Will  you  dip  it  in  the  water  and  put  this  strip  across  the 
cut?" 

Gilbert  did  as  he  was  bid,  and,  pressing  the  edges  of 
the  wound  together,  began  to  lay  the  plaster  across  his 
cheek. 

"You  can  hardly  see,"  said  she.  "Let  me  hold  the 
light." 

She  raised  the  candle,  and  the  two  looked  intently  into 
the  glass  at  his  fingers,  as  he  applied  the  strip.  He  met 
with  scant  success,  for  it  stuck  to  his  thumb  and  curled 
backwards  like  a  shaving.  He  made  another  and  more 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  85 

careful  attempt  to  place  it,  but,  with  the  callous  obstinacy 
often  displayed  by  inanimate  things,  it  refused  to  lie 
flat. 

The  two  pairs  of  eyes  met  in  the  looking-glass. 

"I  cannot  make  it  hold,"  said  he.  "It  is  not  wet 
enough,  and  I  am  too  clumsy." 

His  arm  ached  where  it  had  been  hit  below  the  elbow ; 
it  was  difficult  to  keep  it  steady. 

"  I  can  do  it,"  said  Cecilia,  a  certain  resolute  neutrality 
in  her  voice.  "Hold  the  candle,  sir." 

She  took  the  strip  from  him,  and,  dipping  it  afresh 
in  the  water,  laid  it  deftly  across  his  cheekbone. 

As  her  cool  fingers  touched  his  hot  cheek  he  dropped 
his  eyes  from  her  face  to  the  fine  handkerchief  which 
she  had  tucked  into  her  bosom,  and  which  rose  and  fell 
with  her  breathing.  She  took  it  out,  and  held  it  pressed 
against  the  plaster. 

"You  will  need  two  pieces,"  she  said.  "Keep  this 
upon  the  place  while  I  cut  another  strip." 

He  had  never  been  ordered  in  this  way  by  a  girl 
before.  Caprice  he  had  experience  of,  and  he  had 
known  the  exactingness  of  spoilt  women,  but  Cecilia's 
impersonal  commanding  of  him  was  new,  and  it  did  not 
displease  him.  He  told  himself,  as  he  stood  in  front  of 
her,  that,  were  he  to  describe  her,  he  would  never  call 
her  a  girl.  She  was  essentially  a  woman. 

"That  is  a  much  better  arrangement,"  observed 
Captain  Somerville,  as  Gilbert  entered  the  dining-room 
alone.  "I  did  not  know  you  were  such  a  good  surgeon, 
Speid." 

"Don't  praise  me.  I  was  making  such  a  clumsy  job 
of  it  that  Miss  Raeburn  came  to  my  help ;  she  has  mended 
it  so  well  that  a  few  days  will  heal  it,  I  expect." 

"You  will  have  a  fine  scar,  my  lad,"  said  the  sailor. 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I  assure  you,  the  thing  is  of 
no  consequence.  It  is  not  really  bad." 

"It  is  quite  bad  enough,"  said  Lady  Eliza. 


86  THE  INTERLOPER 

"You  think  far  too  much  of  it,  ma'am." 

"At  any  rate,  sit  down  and  help  yourself  to  some 
wine.  I  have  not  half  thanked  you  for  your  good 
offices." 

"I  fancy  he  is  repaid,"  said  Somerville  dryly,  glancing 
at  the  strips  of  plaster. 

Lady  Eliza  had  ordered  a  carriage  to  be  got  ready  to 
take  Speid  and  the  sailor  home,  and  Captain  Somerville 
had  sent  a  message  to  Kaims  by  Jimmy  Stirk,  telling  his 
family  to  expect  his  return  in  the  morning,  as  he  had 
accepted  Gilbert's  suggestion  that  he  should  remain  at 
Whanland  for  the  night.  He  looked  kindly  on  this 
arrangement,  for  he  was  over  sixty,  and  it  was  a  long 
time  since  he  had  exerted  himself  so  much. 

While  they  stood  in  the  hall  bidding  Lady  Eliza  good- 
night, Cecilia  came  downstairs.  She  had  not  followed 
Gilbert  to  the  dining-room.  She  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  as  he  went  away. 

"Thank  you,"  said  he,  looking  at  her  and  keeping  it 
for  a  moment. 

He  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  beside  Somerville,  very 
silent,  and,  when  they  reached  Whanland  and  he  had 
seen  his  friend  installed  for  the  night,  he  went  to  his 
own  room.  What  had  become  of  Macquean  he  did  not 
know  and  did  not  care.  He  sat  late  by  the  fire,  listening 
to  the  snoring  of  the  sailor,  which  reached  him  through 
the  wall. 

A  violent  headache  woke  him  in  the  morning,  and  he 
lay  thinking  of  the  events  of  the  preceding  night.  He 
put  his  hand  up  to  his  cheek  to  feel  if  the  plaster  was  in 
its  place.  Macquean  came  in,  according  to  custom, 
with  his  shaving-water,  looking  neither  more  nor  less 
uncouth  and  awkward  than  usual.  Though  he  shifted 
from  foot  to  foot,  the  man  had  a  complacency  on  his 
face  that  exasperated  his  master. 

"What  did  you  mean  by  leaving  the  carriage  last 
night?"  said  Gilbert. 


THE  LOOKING-GLASS  87 

"A'  went  awa'  to  Morphie,"  said  Macquean. 

"And  who  told  you  to  do  that  ? " 

"Aw  !  a'  didna'  speir *  about  that.  A'  just  tell't  them 
to  gang  awa'  down  to  the  doo'cot.  Her  ladyship  was 
vera  well  pleased,"  continued  Macquean,  drawing  his 
lips  back  from  his  teeth  in  a  chastened  smile. 

"Get  out  of  the  room,  you  damned  fellow!  You 
should  get  out  of  the  house,  too,  if  it  weren't  for — for — 
get  out,  I  say  ! "  cried  Gilbert,  sitting  up  suddenly. 

Macquean  put  down  the  shaving-water  and  went 
swiftly  to  the  door.  When  he  had  shut  it  behind  him 
he  stood  a  moment  to  compose  himself  on  the  door-mat. 

"  He  shouldna  speak  that  way,"  he  said  very  solemnly, 
wagging  his  head. 

*Ask. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    HOUSE    IN    THE    CLOSE 

To  say  that  the  Miss  Robertsons  were  much  respected  in 
Kaims  was  to  give  a  poor  notion  of  the  truth.  The  last 
survivors  of  a  family  which  had  lived — and,  for  the 
most  part,  died — in  the  house  they  still  occupied,  they 
had  spent  the  whole  of  their  existence  in  the  town. 

It  was  nearly  a  hundred  years  since  a  cousin  of  the 
Speid  family,  eldest  and  plainest  of  half  a  dozen  sisters, 
had,  on  finding  herself  the  sole  unmarried  member  of 
the  band,  accepted  the  addresses  and  fortune  of  a 
wealthy  East  India  merchant  whose  aspiring  eye  was 
turned  in  her  direction. 

The  family  outcry  was  loud  at  his  presumption,  for 
his  birth  was  as  undistinguished  as  his  person,  and  the 
married  sisters  raised  a  chorus  of  derision  from  the  calm 
heights  of  their  own  superiority.  Mr.  Robertson's 
figure,  which  was  homely;  his  character,  which  was 
ineffective;  his  manners,  which  were  rather  absurd,  all 
came  in  for  their  share  of  ridicule.  The  only  thing  at 
which  they  did  not  make  a  mock  was  his  money. 

But  Isabella  was  a  woman  of  resolute  nature,  and, 
having  once  put  her  hand  to  the  plough,  she  would  not 
look  back.  She  not  only  married  Mr.  Robertson  in  the 
face  of  her  family,  but  had  the  good  sense  to  demean 
herself  as  though  she  were  conquering  the  earth;  then 
she  settled  down  into  a  sober  but  high-handed  matri- 
mony, and  proceeded  to  rule  the  merchant  and  all 
belonging  to  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  The  only  mistake 
she  made  was  that  of  having  thirteen  children. 

88 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  CLOSE  89 

And  now  the  tall  tombstone,  which  rose,  with  its 
draped  urn,  from  a  forest  of  memorials  in  the  church- 
yard of  Kaims,  held  records  of  the  eleven  who  lay  under 
it  beside  their  parents.  The  women  had  never  left  their 
own  place;  two  or  three  of  the  men  had  gone  far  afield, 
but  each  one  of  the  number  had  died  unmarried,  and 
each  had  been  buried  at  home.  The  two  living  would 
look  in  at  it,  on  the  rare  occasions  on  which  they  passed, 
with  a  certain  sense  of  repose. 

After  his  marriage,  Mr.  Robertson  had  met  with 
reverses,  and  the  increase  of  his  family  did  not  mend 
his  purse.  At  his  death,  which  took  place  before  that 
of  his  wife,  he  was  no  more  than  comfortably  off;  and  the 
ample  means  possessed  by  Miss  Hersey  and  Miss  Caroline 
were  mainly  due  to  their  own  economical  habits,  and  the 
accumulated  legacies  of  their  brothers  and  sisters. 

In  the  town  of  Kaims  the  houses  of  the  bettermost 
classes  were  completely  hidden  from  the  eye,  for  they 
stood  behind  those  fronting  on  the  street,  and  were  ap- 
proached by  "closes,"  or  narrow,  covered  ways,  running 
back  between  the  buildings.  The  dark  doorways  open- 
ing upon  the  pavement  gave  no  suggestion  of  the  respect- 
able haunts  to  which  they  led.  The  Robertson  house 
stood  at  the  end  of  one  of  these.  Having  dived  into  the 
passages,  one  emerged  again  on  a  paved  path,  flanked 
by  deep  borders  of  sooty  turf,  under  the  windows  of  the 
tall,  dead-looking  tenements  frowning  squalidly  down 
on  either  side,  and  giving  a  strange  feeling  of  the  presence 
of  unseen  eyes,  though  no  sign  of  humanity  was  visible 
behind  the  panes.  From  the  upper  stories  the  drying 
underwear  of  the  poorer  inhabitants  waved,  parti- 
coloured, from  long  poles.  The  house  was  detached. 
It  was  comfortable  and  spacious,  with  a  wide  staircase 
painted  in  imitation  of  marble,  and  red  baize  inner 
doors;  very  silent,  very  light,  looking  on  its  further  side 
into  a  garden. 

It  was  Sunday;  the  two  old  ladies,  who  were  strict 


90  THE  INTERLOPER 

Episcopalians,  had  returned  from  church,  and  were 
sitting  dressed  in  the  clothes  held  sacred  to  the  day,  in 
their  drawing-room.  June  was  well  forward,  and  the 
window  was  open  beside  Miss  Hersey,  as  she  sat,  hand- 
kerchief in  hand,  on  the  red  chintz  sofa.  The  strong 
scent  of  lilies  of  the  valley  came  up  from  outside,  and 
pervaded  that  part  of  the  room.  At  her  elbow  stood  a 
little  round  table  of  black  lacquer  inlaid  with  mother-of- 
pearl  pagodas.  Miss  Caroline  moved  about  rather  aim- 
lessly among  the  furniture,  patting  a  table-cover  here 
and  shifting  a  chair  there,  but  making  no  appreciable 
difference  in  anything  she  touched.  Near  the  other 
window  was  set  out  a  tray  covered  with  a  napkin,  holding 
some  wineglasses,  a  decanter,  and  two  plates  of  sponge- 
cakes. 

The  Miss  Robertsons'  garden  formed  a  kind  of  oasis  in 
the  mass  of  mean  and  crowded  houses  which  lay  between 
the  High  Street  and  the  docks ;  for  the  populous  part  of 
Kaims,  where  the  sailors,  dockmen,  and  fishing-people 
lived,  stretched  on  every  side.  A  wide  grass-plot,  which 
centered  in  a  wooden  seat,  crept  close  under  the  drawing- 
room  windows,  and  from  this  a  few  steps  ran  down  to 
the  walled  enclosure  in  which  flower  and  kitchen  garden 
were  combined.  The  gate  at  their  foot  was  overhung  by 
an  old  jessamine  plant  which  hid  the  stone  lintel  in  a 
shower  of  white  stars.  Round  the  walls  were  beds  of 
simple  flowering  plants,  made  with  no  pretence  of  art 
or  arrangement,  and  dug  by  some  long-forgotten  gardener 
who  had  died  unsuspicious  of  the  oppressive  niceties 
which  would,  in  later  times,  be  brought  into  his  trade. 
Mignonette  loaded  the  air  with  its  keen  sweetness, 
pansies  lifted  their  falsely-innocent  faces,  sweet-williams 
were  as  thick  as  a  velvet-pile  carpet  in  shades  of  red  and 
white,  the  phlox  swayed  stiffly  to  the  breeze,  and  con- 
volvulus minor,  most  old-fashioned  of  flowers,  seemed 
to  have  sprung  off  all  the  Dresden  bowls  and  plates  on 
which  it  had  ever  been  painted,  and  assembled  itself  in 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  CLOSE  91 

a  corner  alongside  the  lilies  of  the  valley.  The  whole 
of  the  middle  part  of  the  place  was  filled  with  apple-trees, 
and  the  earth  at  their  feet  was  planted  with  polyanthus 
and  hen-and-chicken  daisies.  At  the  foot  of  the  garden 
a  fringe  of  white  and  purple  lilacs  stood  by  the  gravel 
path,  and  beyond  these,  outside  the  walls,  a  timber- 
merchant's  yard  made  the  air  noisy  with  the  whirring 
of  saws  working  ceaselessly  all  the  week. 

But  to-day  everything  was  quiet,  and  the  Miss 
Robertsons  sat  in  their  drawing-room  expecting  their 
company. 

The  Edinburgh  coach  reached  Kaims  late  on  Saturday 
nights,  and  those  who  expected  mails  or  parcels  were 
obliged  to  wait  for  them  until  Sunday  morning,  when, 
from  half-past  one  to  two  o'clock,  the  mail-office  was 
opened,  and  its  contents  handed  out  to  the  owners. 
Church  and  kirk  were  alike  over  at  the  time  of  distribu- 
tion, and  the  only  inconvenience  to  people  who  had 
come  in  from  the  country  was  the  long  wait  they  had  to 
endure  after  their  respective  services  had  ended,  till 
the  moment  at  which  the  office  doors  were  unlocked. 
From  time  immemorial  the  Miss  Robertsons  had  opened 
their  house  to  their  friends  between  church  hour  and 
mail  hour,  and  this  weekly  reception  was  attended  by 
such  county  neighbours  as  lived  within  reasonable 
distance  of  the  town,  and  did  not  attend  the  country 
kirks.  Their  carriages  and  servants  would  be  sent  to 
wait  until  the  office  should  open,  while  they  themselves 
would  go  to  spend  the  interval  with  the  old  ladies. 

Like  moss  on  an  ancient  wall,  a  certain  etiquette  had 
grown  over  these  occasions,  from  which  no  one  who 
visited  at  the  house  in  the  close  would  have  had  the 
courage  or  the  ill-manners  to  depart.  Miss  Hersey, 
who  had  virtually  assumed  the  position  of  elder  sister, 
would  sit  directly  in  the  centre  of  the  sofa,  and,  to  the 
vacant  places  on  either  side  of  her,  the  two  ladies  whose 
rank  or  whose  intimacy  with  herself  entitled  them  to 


92  THE  INTERLOPER 

the  privilege,  would  be  conducted.  She  was  thinking 
to-day  of  the  time  when  Clementina  Speid  had*  sat  for 
the  first  time  at  her  right  hand  and  looked  down  upon 
the  lilies  of  the  valley.  Their  scent  was  coming  up  now. 

The  drawing-room  was  full  on  a  fine  Sunday,  and  Miss 
Caroline,  who  generally  retired  to  a  little  chair  at  the 
wall,  would  smile  contentedly  on  her  guests,  throwing, 
from  time  to  time,  some  mild  echo  of  her  sister's  words 
into  the  talk  around  her.  When  all  who  could  reason- 
ably be  expected  had  arrived,  Miss  Hersey  would  turn 
to  the  husband  of  the  lady  occupying  the  place  of  honour, 
and,  in  the  silence  which  the  well-known  action  invariably 
created,  would  desire  him  to  play  the  host. 

"  Mr.  Speid,  will  you  pour  out  the  wine  ? " 

Sunday  upon  Sunday  the  words  had  been  unaltered; 
then,  for  thirty  years,  a  different  name.  But  now  it 
was  the  same  again,  and  Gilbert,  like  his  predecessor, 
would,  having  performed  his  office,  place  Miss  Kersey's 
wineglass  on  the  table  with  the  mother-of-pearl  pagodas. 

It  was  nearing  one  o'clock  before  the  marble-painted 
entrance-hall  echoed  to  the  knocker,  but,  as  one  raindrop 
brings  many,  its  first  summons  was  the  beginning  of  a 
succession  of  others,  and  the  drawing-room  held  a  good 
many  people  when  Gilbert  arrived.  Two  somewhat 
aggressive-looking  matrons  were  enthroned  upon  the 
sofa,  a  group  of  men  had  collected  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  and  a  couple  or  so  of  young  people  were  chattering 
by  themselves.  Miss  Caroline  on  her  chair  listened  to 
the  halting  remarks  of  a  boy  just  verging  on  manhood, 
who  seemed  much  embarrassed  by  his  position,  and  who 
cast  covert  and  hopeless  glances  towards  his  own  kind 
near  the  window. 

Robert  Fullarton  was  standing  silent  by  the  mantel- 
piece looking  out  over  the  garden  as  Miss  Hersey  had 
done,  and  thinking  of  the  same  things;  but  whereas, 
with  her,  the  remembrance  was  occasional,  with  him  it 
was  constant.  He  had  hardly  missed  his  Sunday  visit 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  CLOSE  93 

once  since  the  Sunday  of  which  he  thought,  except  when 
he  was  absent  from  home.  It  was  a  kind  of  painful 
comfort  to  him  to  see  the  objects  which  had  surrounded 
her  and  which  had  never  changed  since  that  day.  He 
came  back  into  the  present  at  the  sound  of  Miss  Hersey's 
voice. 

"You  have  not  brought  your  nephew  with  you,"  she 
said,  motioning  him  to  a  chair  near  her. 

"Ah,  he  is  well  occupied,  ma'am,"  replied  Robert, 
sitting  down,  "or,  at  least,  he  thinks  he  is.  He  has 
gone  to  Morphie  kirk." 

"One  may  be  well  occupied  there  also,"  said  Miss 
Hersey,  from  the  liberality  of  her  Episcopalian  point  of 
view.  "I  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  Presbyterian." 

"Neither  is  he,"  said  Fullarton,  raising  his  eyebrows 
oddly,  "but  he  has  lately  professed  to  admire  that  form 
of  worship." 

Miss  Robertson  felt  that  there  was  the  suspicion  of 
something  hidden  in  his  words,  and  was  a  little  uncom- 
fortable. She  did  not  like  the  idea  of  anything  below 
the  surface.  The  two  women  beside  her,  who  were  more 
accustomed  to  such  allusions,  smiled. 

"I  do  not  understand,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady.  "You 
seem  to  have  some  other  meaning." 

"  I  fancy  there  is  another  meaning  to  his  zeal,  and  that 
it  is  called  Cecilia  Raeburn,"  said  Fullarton. 

"Oh,  indeed!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  ladies,  putting 
on  an  arch  face,  "that  is  an  excellent  reason  for  going  to 
church." 

Robert  saw  that  Miss  Hersey  was  annoyed  by  her 
tone. 

"I  dare  say  he  profits  by  what  he  hears  as  much  as 
another,"  he  said.  "One  can  hardly  be  surprised  that 
a  young  fellow  should  like  to  walk  some  of  the  way 
home  in  such  attractive  company.  There  is  no  harm 
in  that,  is  there,  Miss  Robertson?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Miss  Hersey,  reassured. 


94  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Mr.  Crauford  Fordyce  has  a  fine  property 
in  Lanarkshire,  I  am  told,"  said  one  of  the  ladies, 
who  seldom  took  the  trouble  to  conceal  her  train  of 
thought. 

"His  father  has,"  replied  Fullarton. 

Gilbert  had  entered  quietly,  and,  in  the  babble  of 
voices,  Miss  Hersey  had  not  heard  him  announced. 
Having  paid  his  respects  to  her  sister,  he  did  not  disturb 
her,  seeing  she  was  occupied;  but,  for  the  last  few 
minutes,  he  had  been  standing  behind  Fullarton  in  the 
angle  of  a  tall  screen.  His  face  was  dark. 

"Ah,  Gilbert,"  exclaimed  the  old  lady;  "I  was  won- 
dering where  you  could  be." 

"Take  my  chair,  Speid,"  said  Fullarton.  "I  am 
sure  Miss  Robertson  is  longing  to  talk  to  you." 

"You  are  like  a  breath  of  youth,"  said  Miss  Hersey, 
as  he  sat  down.  "Tell  me,  what  have  you  been  doing 
since  I  saw  you?" 

Gilbert  made  a  great  effort  to  collect  himself.  The 
lady  who  had  been  speaking  possessed  an  insatiable 
curiosity,  and  was  bombarding  Fullarton  with  a  volley 
of  questions  about  his  nephew  and  the  extent  of  his 
nephew's  intimacy  at  Morphie,  for  she  was  a  person  who 
considered  herself  privileged. 

"For  one  thing,  I  have  bought  a  new  cabriolet,"  said 
the  young  man. 

"And  what  is  it  like?"  asked  Miss  Hersey. 

Carriages  and  horses  were  things  that  had  never 
entered  the  range  of  her  interest,  but,  to  her,  any 
belonging  of  Gilbert's  was  important. 

"It  is  a  high  one,  very  well  hung,  and  painted  yellow. 
I  drive  my  iron-gray  mare  in  it." 

"That  will  have  a  fine  appearance,  Gilbert." 

"It  would  please  me  very  much  to  take  you  out, 
ma'am,"  said  he,  "but  the  step  is  so  high  that  I  am 
afraid  you  would  find  it  inconvenient." 

"I  am  too  old,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Hersey,  looking 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  CLOSE  95 

delighted;  "but  some  day  I  will  come  to  the  head  of  the 
close  and  see  you  drive  away." 

Gilbert's  ears  were  straining  towards  Fullarton  and 
his  companion,  who,  regardless  of  the  reticence  of  his 
answers,  was  cross-examining  him  minutely. 

"I  suppose  that  Lady  Eliza  would  be  well  satisfied," 
she  was  saying,  "and  I  am  sure  she  should,  too.  Of 
course,  it  would  be  a  grand  chance  for  Miss  Raeburn  if 
Mr.  Fordyce  were  to  think  seriously  of  her;  she  has  no 
fortune.  I  happen  to  know  that.  For  my  part,  I 
never  can  admire  those  pale  girls." 

The  speaker,  who  had  the  kind  of  face  that  makes 
one  think  of  domestic  economy,  looked  haughtily  from 
under  her  plumed  Leghorn  bonnet. 

Fullarton  grew  rather  uncomfortable,  for  he  suspected 
the  state  of  Gilbert's  mind,  and  the  lady,  whom  social 
importance  rather  than  friendship  with  Miss  Robertson 
had  placed  on  the  red  chintz  sofa,  was  a  person  whose 
tongue  knew  no  bridle.  He  rose  to  escape.  Gilbert 
rose  also,  in  response  to  a  nameless  impulse,  and  a  new- 
comer appropriating  his  chair,  he  went  and  stood  at  the 
window. 

Though  close  to  the  lady  who  had  spoken,  he  turned 
from  her,  unable  to  look  in  her  direction,  and  feeling  out 
of  joint  with  the  world.  His  brows  were  drawn  together 
and  the  scar  on  his  cheek,  now  a  white  seam,  showed 
strong  as  he  faced  the  light.  It  was  more  than  three 
months  since  Cecilia  had  doctored  it  and  he  had  watched 
her  fingers  in  the  looking-glass.  He  had  met  her  many 
times  after  that  night,  for  Lady  Eliza  had  felt  it  behoved 
her  to  show  him  some  attention,  and  had,  at  last,  almost 
begun  to  like  him.  Had  her  feelings  been  unbiassed  by 
the  past,  there  is  little  doubt  that  she  would  have  become 
heartily  fond  of  him,  for,  like  Granny  Stirk,  she  loved 
youth;  and  her  stormy  explanation  with  Fullarton 
constantly  in  the  back  of  her  mind,  she  strove  with 
herself  to  accept  the  young  man's  presence  naturally. 


96  THE  INTERLOPER 

To  Fullarton,  Gilbert  was  scarcely  sympathetic,  even 
laying  aside  the  initial  fact  that  he  was  the  living  cause 
of  the  loss  whose  bitterness  he  would  carry  to  the  grave. 
A  cynicism  which  had  grown  with  the  years  was  almost 
as  high  as  his  heart,  like  the  rising  shroud  supposed  to 
have  been  seen  by  witches  round  the  bodies  of  doomed 
persons.  In  spite  of  his  wideness  of  outlook  in  ^most 
matters,  there  was  a  certain  insularity  in  him,  which 
made  him  resent,  as  a  consequence  of  foreign  up-bringing, 
the  very  sensitive  poise  of  Gilbert's  temperament.  And, 
in  the  young  man's  face,  there  was  little  likeness  to  his 
mother  to  rouse  any  feeling  in  Robert's  breast. 

Speid's  thoughts  were  full  of  Cecilia  and  Crauford 
Fordyce.  He  had  seen  the  latter  a  couple  of  times — for 
it  was  some  weeks  since  he  had  arrived  to  visit  his  uncle 
— and  he  had  not  cared  for  him.  Once  he  had  overtaken 
him  on  the  road,  and  they  had  walked  a  few  miles 
together.  He  had  struck  him  as  stupid,  and  possibly, 
coarse-fibred.  He  only  realised,  as  he  stood  twirling 
the  tassel  of  the  blind,  how  important  his  occasional 
meetings  with  Cecilia  had  become  to  him,  how  much  she 
was  in  his  thoughts,  how  her  words,  her  ways,  her 
movements,  her  voice,  were  interwoven  with  every  fancy 
he  had.  He  had  been  a  dullard,  he  told  himself,  stupid 
and  coarse-fibred  as  Fordyce.  He  had  been  obliged  to 
wait  until  jealousy,  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  should 
show  him  that  which  lay  round  his  feet.  Fool,  idiot, 
and  thrice  idiot  that  he  was  to  have  been  near  to  such  a 
transcendent  creature,  and  yet  ignorant  of  the  truth ! 
Though  her  charm  had  thrilled  him  through  and  through, 
it  was  only  here  and  now  that  the  chance  words  of  a 
vulgar  woman  had  revealed  that  she  was  indispensable 
to  him. 

Though  self-conscious,  he  was  not  conceited,  and  he 
sighed  as  he  reflected  that  he  could  give  her  nothing 
which  Fordyce  could  not  also  offer.  From  the  little  he 
had  heard,  he  fancied  him  to  be  a  richer  man  than  him- 


THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  CLOSE  97 

self.  Cecilia  did  not  strike  him  as  a  person  who,  if  her 
heart  were  engaged,  would  take  count  of  the  difference. 
But  what  chance  had  he  more  than  another  of  engaging 
her  heart?  Fordyce  was  not  handsome,  certainly,  but 
then,  neither  was  he  ill-looking.  Gilbert  glanced  across 
at  a  mirror  which  hung  in  the  alcove  of  the  window,  and 
saw  in  it  a  rather  sinister  young  man  with  a  scarred  face. 
He  was  not  attractive,  either,  he  thought.  Well,  he 
had  learned  something. 

"Mr.  Speid,  will  you  pour  out  the  wine?" 
Miss  Hersey's  voice  was  all  ceremony.     Not  for  the 
world  would  she  have  called  him  Gilbert  at  such  a 
moment. 

He  went  forward  to  the  little  tray  and  did  as  she  bid 
him. 


CHAPTER   IX 

ON   FOOT   AND    ON    WHEELS 

THE  yellow  cabriolet  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the  close. 
The  iron-gray  mare,  though  no  longer  in  her  first  youth, 
abhorred  delay,  and  was  tossing  her  head  and  moving 
restlessly,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  very  small 
English  groom  who  stood  a  yard  in  front  of  her  nose, 
and  whose  remonstrances  were  completely  lost  on  her. 
Now  and  then  she  would  fidget  with  her  forefeet,  spoiling 
the  "Assyrian  stride"  which  had  added  pounds  to  her 
price  and  made  her  an  object  of  open-mouthed  amase- 
ment  to  the  youth  of  the  Kaims  gutter. 

A  crowd  of  little  boys  were  collected  on  the  pavement ; 
for  the  company  which  emerged  from  the  Mis*  Robert- 
sons' house  on  Sundays  was  as  good  as  a  peep-show  to 
them,  and  the  laird  of  Whanland  was,  to  their  minds, 
the  most  choice  flower  of  fashion  and  chivalry  which 
this  weekly  entertainment  could  offer.  Not  that  that 
fact  exempted  him  from  their  criticism — no  fact  yet  in 
existence  could  protect  any  person  from  the  tongue  of 
the  Scotch  street-boy — and  the  groom,  who  had  been 
exposed  to  their  comment  for  nearly  twenty  minutes, 
was  beginning,  between  the  mare  and  the  audience,  to 
come  to  the  end  of  his  temper. 

"Did  ever  ye  see  sic  a  wee,  wee  mannie?"  exclaimed 
one  of  the  older  boys,  pointing  at  him. 

"He's  terrible  like  a  monkey." 

"An"  a'm  fell  feared  he'll  no  grow.  What  auld  are  ye, 
mun?"  continued  the  other,  raising  his  voice  to  a  shout. 

There  was  no  reply. 

98 


ON  FOOT  AND  ON  WHEELS  99 

"Hech  !  he  winna  speak  !" 

"He'll  no  be  bigger  nor  Jockie  Thompson.  Come 
awa  here,  Jockie,  an'  let's  see  !" 

A  small  boy  was  hauled  out  from  the  crowd  and 
pushed  forward. 

"Just  stand  you  aside  him  an'  put  your  heedie  up  the 
same  prood  way  he  does." 

The  urchin  stepped  down  off  the  pavement,  and 
standing  as  near  the  victim  as  he  dared,  began  to 
innate  himself  and  to  pull  such  faces  as  he  conceived 
suitable.  As  mimicry  they  had  no  merit,  but  as  insult 
they  were  simply  beyond  belief. 

A  yell  of  approval  arose. 

The  groom  was  beginning  to  meditate  a  dive  at  the 
whipsocket  when  the  solid  shape  of  Jockie  Thompson's 
father  appeared  in  the  distance.  His  son,  who  had 
eluded  him  before  kirk  and  who  still  wore  his  Sunday 
clothes,  sprang  back  to  the  pavement,  and  was  instantly 
swallowed  up  by  'the*r$oup. 

By  the  time  that  the  groom  had  recovered  his  equa- 
nimity the  mare  began  to  paw  the  stones,  for  she  also 
ha'd  had  enough  of  her  present  position. 

"Whoa,  then !"  cried  he  sharply,  raising  his  hand. 

"Gie  her  the  wheep,"  suggested  one  of  the  boys. 

Though  there  was  an  interested  pause,  the  advice 
had  no  effect. 

"He's  feared,"  said  a  boy  with  an  unnaturally  deep 
voice.  "  He's  no  muckle  use.  The  laird  doesna  let  him 
drive;  ye'll  see  when  he  comes  oot  o'  the  close  an'  wins 
into  the  machine,  he'll  put  the  mannie  up  ahint  him  an' 
just  drive  himsel'." 

"Ay,  will  he." 

The  man  threw  a  vindictive  glance  into  the  group, 
and  the  mare,  having  resumed  her  stride,  tossed  her 
head  up  and  down,  sending  a  snow-shower  of  foam  into 
the  air.  A  spot  lit  upon  his  smart  livery  coat,  and  he 
pulled  out  his  handkerchief  to  flick  it  off. 


ioo  THE  INTERLOPER 

A  baleful  idea  suggested  itself  to  the  crowd. 

"Eh,  look — see!"  cried  a  tow-headed  boy,  "gie's  a 
handfu'  o'  yon  black  durt  an'  we'll  put  a  piece  on  his 
breeks  that'll  match  the  t'other  ane !" 

Two  or  three  precipitated  themselves  upon  the  mud, 
and  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  might  have  happened 
had  not  Gilbert,  at  this  moment,  come  up  the  close. 

"Whisht!  whisht!  here's  Whanland !  Michty,  but 
he's  fine !  See  now,  he'll  no  let  the  mannie  drive." 

"  Gosh !  but  he's  a  braw-lookin'  deevil ! " 

"Haud  yer  tongue.  He  doesna  look  vera  canny  the 
day.  I'd  be  sweer*  to  fash  him." 

Gilbert  got  into  the  cabriolet  gathering  up  the  reins, 
his  thoughts  intent  upon  what  he  had  heard  in  the 
house.  The  mare,  rejoiced  to  be  moving,  took  the 
first  few  steps  forward  in  a  fashion  of  her  own,  making, 
as  he  turned  the  carriage,  as  though  she  would  back  on 
to  the  curbstone.  He  gave  her  her  head,  and  drew  the 
whip  like  a  caress  softly  across  headfrack.  She  plunged 
forward,  taking  hold  of  the  bit,  and  trotted  down  the 
High  Street,  stepping  up  like  the  great  lady  she  was, 
and  despising  the  ground  underneath  her. 

However  preoccupied,  Speid  was  not  the  man  to  be 
indifferent  to  his  circumstances  when  he  sat  behind  such 
an  animal.  As  they  left  the  town  and  came  out  upon 
the  flat  stretch  of  road  leading  towards  Whanland,  he 
let  her  go  to  the  top  of  her  pace,  humouring  her  mouth 
till  she  had  ceased  to  pull,  and  was  carrying  her  head 
so  that  the  bit  was  in  line  with  the  point  of  the  shaft. 
A  lark  was  singing  high  above  the  field  at  one  side  of 
him,  and,  at  the  other,  the  scent  of  gorse  came  in  puffs 
on  the  wind  from  the  border  of  the  sandhills.  Beyond 
was  the  sea,  with  the  line  of  cliff  above  Garviekirk 
graveyard  cutting  out  into  the  immeasurable  water. 
The  sky  lay  pale  above  the  sea-line.  They  turned  into 
the  road  by  the  Lour  bridge  from  where  the  river  could 

*  Loth. 


ON  FOOT  AND  ON  WHEELS  101 

be  seen  losing  itself  in  an  eternity  of  distance.  In  the 
extraordinary  Sunday  stillness,  the  humming  of  insects 
was  audible  as  it  only  is  on  the  first  day  of  the  week, 
when  nature  itself  seems  to  suggest  a  suspension  of  all 
but  holiday  energy.  The  natural  world,  which  recog- 
nises no  cessation  of  work,  presents  almost  the  appear- 
ance of  doing  so  at  such  times,  so  great  is  the  effect  of 
the  settled  habit  of  thousands  of  people  upon  its  aspect. 

The  monotony  of  the  motion  and  the  balm  of  the  day 
began  to  intoxicate  Gilbert.  It  is  not  easy  to  feel  that 
fate  is  against  one  when  the  sun  shines,  the  sky  smiles, 
and  the  air  is  quivering  with  light  and  dancing  shadow ; 
harder  still  in  the  face  of  the  blue,  endless  sea-spaces  of 
the  horizon ;  hard  indeed  when  the  horse  before  you  con- 
veys subtly  to  your  hand  that  he  is  prepared  to  transport 
you,  behind  the  beating  pulse  of  his  trot,  to  Eldorado — 
to  the  Isles  of  the  Blessed — anywhere. 

His  heart  rose  in  spite  of  himself  as  he  got  out  of  the 
cabriolet  at  the  door  of  Whanland,  and  ran  his  hand 
down  the  mare's  shoulder  and  forelegs.  He  had  brought 
her  in  hotter  than  he  liked,  and  he  felt  that  he  should  go 
and  see  her  groomed,  for  he  was  a  careful  horse-master. 
But  somehow  he  could  not.  He  dismissed  her  with  a 
couple  of  approving  slaps,  and  watched  her  as  she  was 
led  away.  Then,  tossing  his  hat  and  gloves  to  Macquean, 
who  had  come  out  at  the  sound  of  wheels,  he  strolled  up 
to  the  place  at  which  he  had  once  paused  with  Barclay, 
and  stood  looking  up  the  river  to  the  heavy  woods  of 
Morphie. 

"If  she  were  here!"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  she  were 

here !" 

****** 

As  Speid's  eyes  rested  upon  the  dark  woods,  the  little 
kirk  which  stood  at  their  outskirts  was  on  the  point  of 
emptying,  for  public  worship  began  in  it  later  than  in  the 
kirks  and  churches  of  Kaims. 

The  final  blessing  had  been  pronounced,  the  last  para- 


102  THE  INTERLOPER 

phrase  sung,  and  Lady  Eliza,  with  Cecilia,  sat  in  the 
Morphie  pew  in  the  first  row  of  the  gallery.  Beside  them 
was  Fullarton's  nephew,  Crauford  Fordyce,  busily 
engaged  in  locking  the  Bibles  and  psalm-books  into  their 
box  under  the  seat  with  a  key  which  Lady  Eliza  had 
passed  to  him  for  the  purpose.  His  manipulation  of  the 
peculiarly  constructed  thing  showed  that  this  was  by  no 
means  the  first  time  he  had  handled- it. 

The  beadle  and  an  elder  were  going  their  rounds  with 
the  long-handled  wooden  collecting-shovels,  which  they 
thrust  into  the  pews  as  they  passed ;  the  sound  of  drop- 
ping pennies  pervaded  the  place,  and  the  party  in  the 
Morphie  seat  having  made  their  contributions,  that  hush 
set  in  which  reigned  in  the  kirk  before  the  shovel  was 
handed  into  the  pulpit,  and  the  ring  of  the  minister's 
money  gave  the  signal  for  a  general  departure  not  unlike 
a  stampede.  Lady  Eliza  leaned,  unabashed,  over  the 
gallery  to  see  who  was  present. 

When  the  expected  sound  had  sent  the  male  half  of  the 
congregation  like  a  loosed  torrent  to  the  door,  and  the 
female  remainder  had  departed  more  peacefully,  the  two 
women  went  out  followed  by  Fordyce. 

Lady  Eliza  was  in  high  good  temper.  Though  con- 
tent to  let  all  theological  questions  rest  fundamentally, 
she  had  scented  controversy  in  some  detail  of  the  sermon, 
and  was  minded  to  attack  the  minister  upon  them  when 
next  he  came  in  her  way.  Fordyce,  who  was  apt  to  take 
things  literally,  was  rash  enough  to  be  decoyed  into 
argument  on  the  way  home,  and  not  adroit  enough  to 
come  out  of  it  successfully. 

Robert  Fullarton's  nephew — to  give  him  the  character 
in  which  he  seemed  the  most  important  to  Lady  Eliza — 
belonged  to  the  fresh-faced,  thickset  type  of  which  a  loss 
of  figure  in  later  life  may  be  predicted.  Heavily  built, 
mentally  and  physically,  he  had  been  too  well  brought  up 
to  possess  anything  of  the  bumpkin,  or,  rather,  he  had 
been  too  much  brought  up  in  complicated  surroundings 


ON  FOOT  AND  ON  WHEELS  103 

to  indulge  in  low  tastes,  even  if  he  had  them.  He  took 
considerable  interest  in  his  own  appearance,  though  he 
was  not,  perhaps,  invariably  right  in  his  estimate  of  it, 
and  his  clothes  were  always  good  and  frequently  unsuit- 
able. He  was  the  eldest  son  of  an  indulgent  father,  who 
had  so  multiplied  his  possessions  as  to  become  their 
adjunct  more  than  their  owner;  to  his  mother  and  his 
two  thick-ankled,  elementary  sisters  he  suggested  Adonis, 
and  he  looked  to  politics  as  a  future  career.  Owing  to 
some  slight  natural  defect,  he  was  inclined  to  hang  his 
under-lip  and  breathe  heavily  through  his  nose.  Though 
he  was  of  middle  height,  his  width  made  him  look  short 
of  it,  and  the  impression  he  produced  on  a  stranger  was 
one  of  phenomenal  cleanliness  and  immobility. 

The  way  from  the  kirk  to  Morphie  house  lay  through 
the  fields,  past  the  home  farm,  and  Lady  Eliza  stopped 
as  she  went  by  to  inquire  for  the  health  of  a  young  cart- 
horse which  had  lamed  itself.  Cecilia  and  Crauford 
waited  for  her  at  the  gate  of  the  farmyard.  A  string  of 
ducks  was  waddling  toward  a  ditch  with  that  mixture 
of  caution  and  buffoonery  in  their  appearance  which 
makes  them  irresistible  to  look  at,  and  a  hen's  discor- 
dant Magnificat  informed  the  surrounding  world  that 
she  had  done  her  best  for  it ;  otherwise  everything  was 
still. 

"We  shall  have  to  wait  some  time,  I  expect,  if  it  is 
question  of  a  horse,"  observed  Cecilia,  sitting  down  upon 
a  log  just  outside  the  gate. 

"I  shall  not  be  impatient,"  responded  Fordyce,  show- 
ing two  very  large,  very  white  front  teeth  as  he  smiled. 

"I  was  thinking  that  Mr.  Fullarton  might  get  tired  of 
waiting  for  you  and  drive  home.  The  mails  will  have 
been  given  out  long  ago,  and  he  is  probably  at  Morphie 
by  this  time." 

"Come  now,  Miss  Raeburn;  I  am  afraid  you  think  me 
incapable  of  walking  to  Fullarton,  when,  in  reality,  I 
should  find  it  a  small  thing  to  do  for  the  pleasure  of  sit- 


io4  THE  INTERLOPER 

ting  here  with  you.  Confess  it :  you  imagine  me  a  poor 
sort  of  fellow — one  who,  through  the  custom  of  being 
well  served,  can  do  little  for  himself.  I  have  seen  it  in 
your  expression." 

Cecilia  laughed  a  little.  "Why  should  you  fear  that  ?" 
she  asked. 

"Because  I  am  extremely  anxious  for  your  good 
opinion,"  he  replied— "  and,  of  course,  for  Lady  Eliza's 
also." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have  got  it,"  she  said  lightly. 

"You  are  not  speaking  for  yourself,  Miss  Raeburn.  I 
hope  that  you  think  well  of  me." 

"Your  humility  does  you  credit." 

"I  wish  you  would  be  serious.  It  is  hard  to  be  set 
aside  by  those  whom  one  wishes  to  please." 

"But  I  do  not  set  you  aside.  You  are  speaking  most 
absurdly,  Mr.  Fordyce,"  said  Cecilia,  who  was  growing 
impatient. 

"But  you  seem  to  find  everyone  else  preferable  to 
me — Speid,  for  instance." 

"  It  has  never  occurred  to  me  to  compare  you,  sir." 

Her  voice  was  freezing. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  annoyed  you  by  mentioning  his 
name,"  said  he  clumsily. 

"You  will  annoy  me  if  you  go  on  with  this  con- 
versation," she  replied.  "I  am  not  fond  of  expressing 
my  opinion  about  anyone." 

Fordyce  looked  crestfallen,  and  Cecilia,  who  was  not 
inclined  to  be  harsh  to  anybody,  was  rather  sorry;  she 
felt  as  remorseful  as  though  she  had  offended  a  child ;  he 
was  so  solid,  so  humourless,  so  vulnerable.  She  won- 
dered what  his  uncle  thought  of  him ;  she  had  wondered 
often  enough  what  Fullarton  thought  about  most  things, 
and,  like  many  others,  she  had  never  found  out.  It 
often  struck  her  that  he  was  a  slight  peg  for  such  friend- 
ship as  Lady  Eliza's  to  hang  on.  "II  y'a  un  qui  baise  et 
un  qui  tend  la  joue."  She  knew  that  very  well,  and  she 


ON  FOOT  AND  ON  WHEELS  105 

had  sometimes  resented  the  fact  for  her  adopted  aunt, 
being  a  person  who  understood  resentment  mainly  by 
proxy. 

As  she  glanced  at  the  man  beside  her  she  thought  of 
the  strange  difference  in  people's  estimates  of  the  same 
thing;  no  doubt  he  represented  everything  to  someone, 
but  she  had  spoken  with  absolute  truth  when  she  said 
that  it  had  not  occurred  to  her  to  compare  him  to  Speid. 
She  saw  the  same  difference  between  the  two  men  that 
she  saw  between  fire  and  clay,  between  the  husk  and  the 
grain,  between  the  seen  and  the  unseen.  In  her  twenty- 
four  years  she  had  contrived  to  pierce  the  veils  and 
shadows  that  hide  the  eyes  of  life,  and,  having  looked 
upon  them,  to  care  for  no  light  but  theirs.  The  im- 
pression produced  on  her  when  she  first  saw  Gilbert 
Speid  by  the  dovecote  was  very  vivid,  and  it  was  wonder- 
ful how  little  it  had  been  obliterated  or  altered  in  their 
subsequent  acquaintance.  His  quietness  and  the  forces 
below  it  had  more  meaning  for  her  than  the  obvious 
speeches  and  actions  of  other  people.  She  had  seen  him 
in  a  flash,  understood  him  in  a  flash,  and,  in  a  flash,  her 
nature  had  risen  up  and  paused,  quivering  and  waiting, 
unconscious  of  its  own  attitude.  Simple-minded  people 
were  inclined  to  call  Cecilia  cold. 

"I  am  expecting  letters  from  home  to-day,"  said  For- 
dyce  at  last.  "  I  have  written  very  fully  to  my  father  on 
a  particular  subject,  and  I  am  hoping  for  an  answer." 

"Indeed?"  said  she,  assuming  a  look  of  interest;  she 
felt  none,  but  she  was  anxious  to  be  pleasant. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  see  Fordyce  Castle,"  said  he.  "  I 
must  try  to  persuade  Lady  Eliza  to  pay  us  a  visit  with 
you." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  hardly  be  able  to  do  that,"  she 
answered,  smiling.  "I  have  lived  with  her  for  nearly 
twelve  years,  and  I  have  never  once  known  her  to  leave 
Morphie." 

"But  I  feel  sure  she  would  enjoy  seeing  Fordyce,"  he 


io6  THE  INTERLOPER 

continued;  "it  is  considered  one  of  the  finest  places  in 
Lanarkshire,  and  my  mother  would  make  her  very  wel- 
come; my  sisters,  too,  they  will  be  delighted  to  make 
your  acquaintance.  You  would  suit  each  other  per- 
fectly; I  have  often  thought  that." 

"You  are  very  good,"  she  said,  "and  the  visit  would  be 
interesting,  I  am  sure.  The  invitation  would  please  her, 
even  if  she  did  not  accept  it.  You  can  but  ask  her." 

"Then  I  have  your  permission  to  write  to  my  mother  ?" 
said  Crauford  earnestly. 

It  struck  Cecilia  all  at  once  that  she  was  standing  on 
the  brink  of  a  chasm.  Her  colour  changed  a  little. 

"It  is  for  my  aunt  to  give  that,"  she  said.  "I  am 
always  ready  to  go  anywhere  with  her  that  she  pleases. 

The  more  Fordyce  saw  of  his  companion  the  more 
convinced  was  he,  that,  apart  from  any  inclination  of 
his  own,  he  had  found  the  woman  most  fitted  to  take 
the  place  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  offer  her.  The 
occasional  repulses  which  he  suffered  only  suggested  to 
him  such  maidenly  reserve  as  should  develop,  with  mar- 
riage, into  a  dignity  quite  admirable  at  every  point. 
Her  actual  fascination  was  less  plain  to  him  than  to  many 
others,  and,  though  he  came  of  good  stock,  his  admiration 
for  the  look  of  breeding  strong  in  her  was  not  so  much 
grounded  in  his  own  enjoyment  of  it  as  in  the  effect  he 
foresaw  it  producing  on  the  rest  of  the  world,  in  con- 
nection with  himself.  Her  want  of  fortune  seemed  to 
him  almost  an  advantage.  Was  he  not  one  of  the 
favoured  few  to  whom  it  was  unnecessary  ?  And  where 
would  the  resounding  fame  of  King  Cophetua  be  without 
his  beggar-maid? 

The  letter  he  had  written  to  his  father  contained  an 
epitome  of  his  feelings — at  least,  so  far  as  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  them;  and,  when  he  saw  Lady  Eliza 
emerge  from  a  stable-door  into  the  yard,  and  knew  that 
there  was  no  more  chance  of  being  alone  with  Cecilia,  he 
was  all  eagerness  to  step  out  for  Morphie,  where  his 


ON  FOOT  AND  ON  WHEELS  107 

uncle  had  promised  to  call  for  him  on  his  way  home  from 
Kaims.  Fullarton  might  even  now  be  carrying  the  all- 
important  reply  in  his  pocket. 

He  wondered,  as  they  took  their  way  through  the 
fragrant  grass,  how  he  should  act  when  he  received  it,  for 
he  had  hardly  settled  whether  to  address  Miss  Raeburn 
in  person  or  to  lay  his  hopes  before  Lady  Eliza,  with  a 
due  statement  of  the  prospects  he  represented.  He 
leaned  toward  the  latter  course,  feeling  certain  that  the 
elder  woman  must  welcome  so  excellent  a  fate  for  her 
charge,  and  would  surely  influence  her  were  she  blind 
enough  to  her  own  happiness  to  refuse  him.  But  she 
would  never  refuse  him.  Why  should  she?  He  could 
name  twenty  or  thirty  who  would  be  glad  to  be  in  her 
place.  He  had  accused  her  of  preferring  Speid's  com- 
pany to  his  own,  but  he  had  only  half  believed  the  words 
he  spoke.  For  what  was  Whanland?  and  what  were 
the  couple  of  thousand  a  year  Speid  possessed  ? 

Yet  poor  Crauford  knew,  though  he  would  scarce 
admit  the  knowledge  to  himself,  that  the  only  situation 
in  which  he  felt  at  a  disadvantage  was  in  Speid's  society. 


CHAPTER  X 
KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE 

"FORDYCE  CASTLE, 
"LANARK. 

"June  26,  1801. 
"Mv  DEAR  SON, 

"Your  letter,  with  the  very  important  matter  it  con- 
tains, took  me  somewhat  by  surprise,  for  although  you 
had  mentioned  the  name  of  the  young  lady  and  that  of 
Lady  Eliza  Lamont,  I  was  hardly  prepared  to  hear  that 
you  intended  to  do  her  the  honour  you  contemplate.  A 
father's  approval  is  not  to  be  lightly  asked  or  rashly 
bestowed,  and  I  have  taken  time  to  consider  my  reply. 
You  tell  me  that  Miss  Raeburn  is  peculiarly  fitted,  both 
in  mind  and  person,  to  fill  the  position  she  will,  as  your 
wife,  be  called  upon  to  occupy.  With  regard  to  her 
birth  I  am  satisfied.  She  is,  we  know,  connected  with 
families  whose  names  are  familiar  to  all  whose  approval 
is  of  any  value.  I  may  say,  without  undue  pride,  that 
my  son's  exceptional  prospects  might  have  led  him  to 
form  a  more  brilliant  alliance,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Miss  Cecilia  Raeburn,  possessing  such  qualities  of  mind 
as  you  describe,  will  understand  how  high  a  compliment 
you  pay  to  her  charms  in  overlooking  the  fact.  Your 
statement  that  she  is  dowerless  is  one  upon  which  we 
need  not  dwell ;  it  would  be  hard  indeed  were  the  family 
you  represent  dependent  upon  the  purses  of  those  who 
have  the  distinction  of  entering  it.  I  am  happy  to  say 
that  my  eldest  son  need  be  hampered  by  no  such  con- 
siderations, and  that  Mrs.  Crauford  Fordyce  will  lack 

108 


KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE   109 

nothing  suitable  to  her  station,  and  to  the  interest  that 
she  must  inevitably  create  in  the  society  of  this  county. 
It  now  only  remains  for  me  to  add  that,  having  expressed 
my  feelings  upon  your  choice,  I  am  prepared  to  consent. 
"Your  mother  is,  I  understand,  writing  to  you,  though 
I  have  only  your  sister's  authority  for  saying  so,  for  I 
have  been  so  much  occupied  during  the  last  day  or  two  as 
to  be  obliged  to  lock  the  door  of  my  study.  I  am  afraid, 
my  dear  Crauford  (between  ourselves),  that,  though  she 
knows  my  decision,  your  mother  is  a  little  disappointed 
— upset,  I  should  say.  I  think  that  she  had  allowed  her- 
self to  believe,  from  the  pleasure  you  one  day  expressed 
in  the  society  of  Lady  Maria  Milwright  when  she  was 
with  us,  that  you  were  interested  in  that  direction. 
Personally,  though  Lord  Milborough  is  an  old  friend  of 
the  family,  and  his  daughter'^  connection  with  it  would 
have  been  eminently  suitable,  her  appearance  would 
lead  me  to  hesitate,  were  I  in  your  place  and  contem- 
plating marriage.  But  that  is  an  objection,  perhaps, 
that  your  mother  hardly  understands. 

"I  am,  my  dear  Crauford, 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"THOMAS  FORDYCE." 

"P.S. — Agneta  and  Mary  desire  their  fond  love  to 
their  brother." 

Fordyce  was  sitting  in  his  room  at  Fullarton  with  his 
correspondence  in  front  of  him;  he  had  received  two 
letters  and  undergone  a  purgatory  of  suspense,  for,  by 
the  time  he  reached  Morphie,  his  uncle  had  been  kept 
waiting  for  him  some  time.  Finding  nothing  for  himself 
in  his  private  mail-bag,  Fullarton  had  it  put  under  the 
driving-seat,  and  the  suggestion  hazarded  by  his  nephew 
that  it  should  be  brought  out  only  resulted  in  a  curt 
refusal.  The  elder  man  hated  to  be  kept  waiting,  and  the 
culprit  had  been  forced  to  get  through  the  homeward 
drive  with  what  patience  he  might  summon. 


no  THE  INTERLOPER 

Lady  Fordyce's  letter  lay  unopened  by  that  of  Sir 
Thomas,  and  Crauford,  in  spite  of  his  satisfaction  with 
the  one  he  had  just  read,  eyed  it  rather  apprehensively. 
But,  after  all,  the  main  point  was  gained,  or  what  he 
looked  upon  as  the  main  point,  for  to  the  rest  of  the  affair 
there  could  be  but  one  issue.  He  broke  the  seal  of  his 
mother's  envelope,  and  found  a  second  communication 
inside  it  from  one  of  his  sisters. 

"Mv  DEAR  CRAUFORD  (began  Lady  Fordyce), 

"As  your  father  is  writing  to  you  I  will  add  a  few 
words  to  convey  my  good  wishes  to  my  son  upon  the 
decided  step  he  is  about  to  take.  Had  I  been  consulted 
I  should  have  advised  a  little  more  reflection,  but  as  you 
are  bent  on  pleasing  yourself,  and  your  father  (whether 
rightly  or  wrongly  I  cannot  pretend  to  say)  is  upholding 
you,  I  have  no  choice  left  but  to  express  my  cordial 
good  wishes,  and  to  hope  that  you  may  never  live  to  regret 
it.  Miss  Cecilia  Raeburn  may  be  all  you  say,  or  she 
may  not,  and  I  should  fail  in  my  duty  if  I  did  not  remind 
you  that  a  young  lady  brought  up  in  a  provincial  neigh- 
bourhood is  not  likely  to  step  into  such  a  position  as  that 
of  the  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Fordyce's  eldest  son  without  the 
risk  of  having  her  head  turned,  or,  worse  still,  of  being 
incapable  of  maintaining  her  dignity.  As  I  have  not  had 
the  privilege  of  speaking  to  your  father  alone  for  two 
days,  and  as  he  has  found  it  convenient  to  sit  up  till  all 
hours,  I  do  not  know  whether  the  consent  he  has  (appar- 
ently) given  is  an  unwilling  one,  but  I  should  be  acting 
against  my  conscience  were  I  to  hide  from  you  that  I  sus- 
pect it  most  strongly.  With  heartfelt  wishes  for  your 
truest  welfare, 

"I  remain,  my  dear  Crauford, 

"Your  affectionate  mother, 
"LOUISA  CHARLOTTE  FORDYCE." 

"  P.S. — Would  it  not  be  wise  to  delay  your  plans  until 
you  have  been  once  more  at  home,  and  had  every  oppor- 


KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE   in 

tunity  of  thinking  it  over  ?  You  might  return  here  in  a 
few  days,  and  conclude  your  visit  to  your  uncle  later  on — 
say,  at  the  end  of  September." 

Crauford  laid  down  the  sheet  of  paper ;  he  was  not  apt 
to  seize  on  hidden  things,  but  the  little  touch  of  nature 
which  cropped  up,  like  a  daisy  from  a  rubbish-heap,  in 
the  end  of  his  father's  letter  gave  him  sympathy  to  im- 
agine what  the  atmosphere  of  Fordyce  Castle  must  have 
been  when  it  was  written.  He  respected  his  mother,  not 
by  nature,  but  from  habit,  and  the  experiences  he  had 
sometimes  undergone  had  never  shaken  his  feelings,  but 
only  produced  a  sort  of  distressed  bewilderment.  He 
was  almost  bewildered  now.  He  turned  again  to  Sir 
Thomas's  letter,  and  re-read  it  for  comfort. 

The  enclosure  he  had  found  from  his  sister  was  much 
shorter. 

"Mv  DEAR  BROTHER, 

"Mary  and  I  wish  to  send  you  our  very  kind  love,  and 
we  hope  that  you  will  be  happy.  Is  Miss  Raeburn 
dark  or  fair?  We  hope  she  is  fond  of  tambour-work. 
We  have  some  new  patterns  from  Edinburgh  which  are 
very  pretty.  We  shall  be  very  glad  when  you  return. 
Our  mother  is  not  very  well.  There  is  no  interesting 
news.  Mrs.  Fitz-Allen  is  to  give  a  fete-champetre  with 
illuminations  next  week,  but  we  do  not  know  whether 
we  shall  be  allowed  to  go,  as  she  behaved  most  unbe- 
comingly to  our  mother,  trying  to  take  precedence  of 
her  at  the  prize-giving  in  the  Lanark  flower  show. 
Lady  Maria  Milwright  is  coming  to  visit  us  in  September. 
We  shall  be  very  pleased. 

"Your  affectionate  sister, 

"AGNETA  FORDYCE." 

Fullarton's  good-humour  was  quite  restored  as  uncle 
and  nephew  paced  up  and  down  the  twilit  avenue  that 


ii2  THE  INTERLOPER 

evening.  A  long  silence  followed  the  announcement 
which  the  young  man  had  just  made. 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  doing  wisely,  sir  ?"  he  said  at  last. 

Fullarton  smiled  faintly  before  he  replied;  Crauford 
sometimes  amused  him. 

"In  proposing  to  Cecilia?  One  can  hardly  tell,"  he 
replied;  "that  is  a  thing  that  remains  to  be  seen." 
Perplexity  was  written  in  Crauford's  face. 

"But  surely — surely—"  he  began,  "have  you  not  a 
very  high  opinion  of'  Miss  Raeburn?" 

"The  highest,"  said  the-other  .dryly. 

"But  then ". 

"What,  I  mean  is,  do  you  care  enough  to  court  a  pos- 
sible rebuff  ?  You  are  not  doing  wisely  if,  you  don't  con- 
sider that.  I  say,  a  possible  rebuff,"  continued  his  uncle. 

"Then  you  think  she  will  refuse  me ?" 

"Heaven  knows,"  responded  Robert. ""I  can  only 
tell  you  that  to-day,  when  Miss  Robertson  enquired 
where  you  were,  and  I  said  that  you  were  walking  home 
from  Morphie  kirk  with  Cecilia,  Speid  was  standing  by 
looking  as  black  as  thunder." 

To  those  whose  ill-fortune  it  is  never  to  have  been 
crossed  in  anything,  a  rival  is  another  name  for  a  rogue. 
Fordyce  felt  vindictive;  he  breathed  heavily. 

"Do  you  think  that  Miss  Raeburn  is  likely  to — notice 
Speid?"" 

Robert's  mouth  twitched.  "It  is  difficult  not  to 
notice  Gilbert  Speid,"  he  replied. 

"I  really  fail  to  see  why  everyone  seems  so  much 
attracted  by  him." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  he  attracts  me,"  said  the  elder 
man. 

"He  looks  extremely  ill-tempered — most  unlikely  to 
please  a  young  lady." 

"There  I  do  not  altogether  agree  with  you.  We  are 
always  being  told  that  women  are  strange  things,"  said 
Fullarton. 


KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE   113 

"I  am  astonished  at  the  view  you  take,  uncle. 
After  all,  I  am  unable  to  see  why  my  proposal  should 
be  less  welcome  than  his — that  is,  if  he  intends  to 
make  one." 

"You  certainly  have  solid  advantages.  After  all, 
that  is  the  main  point  with  the  women,"  said  the  man 
for  whose  sake  one  woman,  at  least,  had  lost  all.  The 
habit  of  bitterness  had  grown  strong. 

"  I  shall  go  to  Morphie  to-morrow,  and  ride  one  of  your 
horses,  sir,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"Take  one,  by  all  means;  you  will  make  all  the  more 
favourable  impression-  It  is  a  very  wise  way  of  ap- 
proaching your  goddess— if  you  have  a  good  seat,  of 
course.  Speid  looks  mighty  well  in  the  saddle." 

He  could  not  resist  tormenting  his  nephew. 

The  very  sound  of  Gilbert's  name  was  beginning  to 
annoy  Fordyce,  and  he  changed  the  subject.  It  was  not 
until  the  two  men  parted  for  the  night  that  it  was  men- 
tioned again. 

"I  am  going  out  early  to-morrow,"  said  Robert,  "so  I 
may  not  see  you  before  you  start.  Good  luck,  Crau- 
ford." 

Fordyce  rode  well,  and  looked  his  best  on  horseback, 
but  Cecilia  having  gone  into  the  garden,  the  only  eye 
which  witnessed  his  approach  to  Morphie  next  day  was 
that  of  a  housemaid,  for  Lady  Eliza  sat  writing  in  the 
long  room. 

She  received  him  immediately. 

"  I  am  interrupting  your  ladyship,"  he  remarked  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  said  she,  pushing  her  chair 
back  from  the  table  with  a  gesture  which  had  in  it  some- 
thing masculine ;  "you  are  always  welcome,  as  you  know 
very  well." 

"That  is  a  pleasant  hearing,"  replied  he,  "but  to-day 
it  is  doubly  so.  I  have  come  on  business  of  a — I  may 


ii4  THE  INTERLOPER 

say  —  peculiar  nature.  Lady  Eliza,  I  trust  you  are  my 
friend?" 

"I  shall  be  happy  to  serve  you  in  any  way  I  can,  Mr. 
Fordyce." 

"Then  I  may  count  on  your  good  offices?  My  uncle 
is  so  old  a  friend  of  your  ladyship's  that  I  am  encouraged 

"You  are  not  in  any  difficulty  with  him,  I  hope,"  said 
Lady  Eliza,  interrupting  him  rather  shortly. 

"Far  from  it;  indeed,  I  have  his  expressed  good 
wishes  for  the  success  of  my  errand." 

"Well,  sir?"  she  said,  setting  her  face  and  holding  her 
beautiful  hands  together.  She  was  beginning  to  see 
light. 

"You  may  have  rightly  interpreted  the  frequency  of 
my  visits  here.  In  fact,  I  feel  sure  that  you  have  attrib- 
uted them  —  and  truly  —  to  my  admiration  for  Miss  Rae- 
burn." 

"I  have  hardly  attributed  them  to  admiration  for 
myself,"  she  remarked,  with  a  certain  grim  humour. 

Crauford  looked  rather  shocked. 

"Have  you  said  anything  to  my  niece?"  she  inquired, 
after  a  moment. 

"I  have  waited  for  your  approval." 

"That  is  proper  enough." 

Her  eyes  fixed  themselves,  seeing  beyond  Crauford's 
clean,  solemn  face,  beyond  the  panelled  walls,  into  the 
dull  future  when  Cecilia  should  have  gone  out  from  her 
daily  life.  How  often  her  spirits  had  flagged  during  the 
months  she  had  been  absent  in  Edinburgh  ! 

"Cecilia  shall  do  as  she  likes.  I  will  not  influence  her 
in  any  way,"  she  said  at  last. 

"But  you  are  willing,  Lady  Eliza?" 


There  was  not  the  enthusiasm  he  expected  in  her  voice, 
and  this  ruffled  him;  a  certain  amount  was  due  to  him, 
he  felt. 


KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE   115 

"You  are  aware  that  I  can  offer  Miss  Raeburn  a  very 
suitable  establishment,"  he  said.  "I  should  not  have 
taken  this  step  otherwise." 

"Have  you  private  means,  sir?"  asked  Lady  Eliza, 
drumming  her  fingers  upon  the  table,  and  looking  over 
his  head. 

"No ;  but  that  is  of  little  importance,  for  I  wrote  to  my 
father  a  short  time  ago,  and  yesterday,  after  leaving  you, 
I  received  his  reply.  He  has  consented,  and  he  assures 
me  of  his  intention  to  be  liberal — especially  liberal,  I 
may  say." 

She  was  growing  a  little  weary  of  his  long  words  and 
his  unvaried  air  of  being  official.  She  was  disposed  to 
like  him  personally,  mainly  from  the  fact  that  he  was  the 
nephew  of  his  uncle,  but  the  prospect  of  losing  Cecilia 
hung  heavily  over  any  satisfaction  she  felt  at  seeing  her 
settled.  Many  and  many  a  time  had  she  lain  awake, 
distressed  and  wondering,  how  to  solve  the  problem  of 
the  girl's  future,  were  she  herself  to  die  leaving  her 
unmarried;  it  had  been  her  waking  nightmare.  Now 
there  might  be  an  end  to  all  that.  She  knew  that  she 
ought  to  be  glad  and  grateful  to  fate — perhaps  even 
grateful  to  Crauford  Fordyce.  Tears  were  near  her 
eyes,  and  her  hot  heart  ached  in  advance  to  think  of  the 
days  to  come.  The  little  share  of  companionship  and 
affection,  the  wreckage  she  had  gathered  laboriously  on 
the  sands  of  life,  would  soon  slip  from  her.  Her  com- 
panion could  not  understand  the  pain  in  her  look;  he 
was  smoothing  out  a  letter  on  the  table  before  her. 

She  gathered  herself  together,  sharp  words  coming  to 
her  tongue,  as  they  generally  did  when  she  was  moved. 

"I  suppose  my  niece  and  I  ought  to  be  greatly  flat- 
tered," she  said;  "I  had  forgotten  that  part  of  it." 

"Pray  do  not  imagine  such  a  thing.  If  you  will  read 
this  letter  you  will  understand  the  view  my  father  takes. 
The  second  sheet  contains  private  matters;  this  is  the 
first  one." 


n6  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Fordyce;  the  writing  is  so  close  that 
I  must  carry  it  to  the  light." 

She  took  the  letter  to  one  of  the  windows  at  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  stood  by  the  curtain,  her  back  turned. 

A  smothered  exclamation  came  to  him  from  the 
embrasure,  and  he  was  wondering  what  part  of  the  epistle 
could  have  caused  it  when  she  faced  him  suddenly,  look- 
ing at  him  with  shining  eyes,  and  with  a  flush  of  red 
blood  mounting  to  her  forehead. 

"In  all  my  life  I  have  never  met  with  such  an  out- 
rageous piece  of  impertinence!"  she  exclaimed,  tossing 
the  paper  to  him.  "How  you  have  had  the  effrontery 
to  show  me  such  a  thing  passes  my  understanding ! 
Take  it,  sir !  Take  it,  and  be  obliging  enough  to  leave 
me.  You  are  never  likely  to  '  live  to.  regret '  your  mar- 
riage with  Miss  Raeburn,  for,  while  I  have  any  influence 
with  her,  you  will  never  have  the  chance  of  making  it. 
You  may  tell  Lady  Fordyce,  from  me,  that  the  fact  that 
she  is  a  member  of  your  family  is  sufficient  reason  for 
my  forbidding  my  niece  to  enter  it ! " 

Crauford  stood  aghast,  almost  ready  to  clutch  at  his 
coat  like  a  man  in  a  gale  of  wind,  and  with  scarcely  wits 
left  to  tell  him  that  he  had  given  Lady  Eliza  the  wrong 
letter.  The  oblique  attacks  he  had  occasionally  suffered 
from  his  mother  when  vexed  were  quite  unlike  this 
direct  onslaught.  He  went  towards  her,  opening  his 
mouth  to  speak.  She  waved  him  back. 

"  Not  a  word,  sir !  not  a  word !  I  will  ring  the  bell  and 
order  your  horse  to  be  brought." 

"Lady  Eliza,  I  beg  of  you,  I  implore  you,  to  hear  what 
I  have  got  to  say ! " 

He  was  almost  breathless. 

"I  have  heard  enough.  Do  me  the  favour  to  go,  Mr. 
Fordyce." 

"It  is  not  my  fault!  I  do  assure  you  it  is  not  my 
fault !  I  gave  you  the  wrong  letter,  ma'am.  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  your  seeing  that." 


KING  COPHETUA'S  CORRESPONDENCE   117 

"What  do  I  care  which  letter  it  is?  That  such  im- 
pertinence should  have  been  written  is  enough  for  me. 
Cecilia  'unable  to  support  the  dignity  of  being  your 
wife' !  Faugh!" 

"If  you  would  only  read  my  father's  letter,"  ex- 
claimed Crauford,  drawing  it  out  of  his  pocket,  "you 
would  see  how  very  different  it  is.  He  is  prepared  to 
do  everything — anything." 

"Then  he  may  be  prepared  to  find  you  a  wife  else- 
where," said  Lady  Eliza. 

At  this  moment  Cecilia's  voice  was  heard  in  the  pas- 
sage. He  took  up  his  hat. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said,  foreseeing  further  disaster.  "I 
entreat  you,  Lady  Eliza,  do  not  say  anything  to  Miss 
Raeburn.  I  really  do  not  know  what  I  should  do  if  she 
were  to  hear  of  this  horrible  mistake  ! " 

He  looked  such  a  picture  of  dismay  that,  for  a  moment, 
she  pitied  him. 

"I  should  scarcely  do  such  a  thing,"  she  replied. 

"You  have  not  allowed  me  to  express  my  deep  regret 
— Lady  Eliza,  I  hardly  know  what  to  say." 

"Say  nothing,  Mr.  Fordyce.  That,  at  least,  is  a  safe 
course." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  How  can  I  induce  you  or  Miss 
Raeburn  to  receive  me?  If  she  were  to  know  of  what 
has  happened,  I  should  have  no  hope  of  her  ever  listening 
to  me !  Oh,  Lady  Eliza — pray,  pray  tell  me  that  this 
need  not  destroy  everything!" 

The  storm  of  her  anger  was  abating  a  little,  and  she 
began  to  realise  that  the  unfortunate  Crauford  was 
deserving  of  some  pity.  And  he  was  Robert's  nephew. 

"I  know  nothing  of  my  niece's  feelings,"  she  said, 
"but  you  may  be  assured  that  I  shall  not  mention  your 
name  to  her.  And  you  may  be  assured  of  this  also: 
until  Lady  Fordyce  writes  such  a  letter  as  I  shall  approve 
when  you  show  it  to  me,  you  will  never  approach  her 
with  my  consent." 


ii8  THE  INTERLOPER 

"She  will!  she  shall!"  cried  Crauford,  in  the  heat  of 
his  thankfulness. 

But  it  was  a  promise  which,  when  he  thought  of  it 
in  cold  blood  as  he  trotted  back  to  Fullarton,  made  his 
heart  sink. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    MOUSE   AND   THE    LION 

HE  who  is  restrained  by  a  paternal  law  from  attacking 
the  person  of  his  enemy  need  not  chafe  under  this 
restriction ;  for  he  has  only  to  attack  him  in  the  vanity, 
and  the  result,  though  far  less  entertaining,  will  be 
twice  as  effective.  Gilbert  Speid,  in  spite  of  his  dislike 
to  Mr.  Barclay,  did  not  bear  him  the  slightest  ill-will; 
nevertheless,  he  had  dealt  his  "man  of  business"  as 
shrewd  a  blow  as  one  foe  may  deal  another.  Quite 
unwittingly,  he  had  exposed  him  to  some  ridicule. 

The  lawyer  had  "hallooed  before  he  was  out  of  the 
wood,"  with  the  usual  consequences. 

Kaims  had  grown  a  little  weary  of  the  way  in  which 
he  thrust  his  alleged  intimacy  at  Whanland  in  its  face, 
and  when  Speid,  having  come  to  an  end  of  his  business 
interviews,  had  given  him  no  encouragement  to  present 
himself  on  a  social  footing,  it  did  not  conceal  its  amuse- 
ment. 

As  Fordyce  dismounted,  on  his  return  from  Morphie, 
Barclay  was  on  his  way  to  Fullarton,  for  he  was  a  busy 
man,  and  had  the  law  business  of  most  of  the  adjoining 
estates  on  his  hands.  Robert,  who  had  arranged  to 
meet  him  in  the  early  afternoon,  had  been  away  all  day, 
and  he  was  told  by  the  servant  who  admitted  him  that 
Mr.  Fullarton  was  still  out,  but  that  Mr.  Fordyce  was  on 
the  lawn.  The  lawyer  was  well  pleased,  for  he  had  met 
Crauford  on  a  previous  visit,  and  had  not  forgotten 
that  he  was  an  heir-apparent  of  some  importance.  He 
smoothed  his  hair,  where  the  hat  had  disarranged  it, 

119 


120  THE  INTERLOPER 

with  a  fleshy  white  hand,  and,  telling  the  servant  that 
he  would  find  his  own  way,  went  through  the  house  and 
stepped  out  of  a  French  window  on  to  the  grass. 

Fordyce  was  sitting  on  a  stone  seat  partly  concealed 
by  a  yew  hedge,  and  did  not  see  Barclay  nor  hear  his 
approaching  footfall  on  the  soft  turf.  He  had  come  out 
and  sat  down,  feeling  unable  to  occupy  himself  or  to  get 
rid  of  his  mortification.  He  had  been  too  much  horrified 
and  surprised  at  the  time  to  resent  anything  Lady  Eliza 
had  said,  but,  on  thinking  over  her  words  again,  he  felt 
that  he  had  been  hardly  treated.  He  could  only  hope 
she  would  keep  her  word  and  say  nothing  to  Cecilia,  and 
that  the  letter  he  had  undertaken  to  produce  from  Lady 
Fordyce  would  make  matters  straight.  A  ghastly  fear 
entered  his  mind  as  he  sat.  What  if  Lady  Eliza  in  her 
rage  should  write  to  his  mother?  The  thought  was  so 
dreadful  that  his  brow  grew  damp.  He  had  no  reason 
for  supposing  that  she  would  do  such  a  thing,  except 
that,  when  he  left  her,  she  had  looked  capable  of  any- 
thing. 

"  Good  heavens  !  good  heavens  ! "  he  ejaculated. 

He  sprang  up,  unable  to  sit  quiet,  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  Barclay. 

"My  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  the  lawyer,  "what  is  the 
matter?" 

"Oh,  nothing — nothing,"  said  Crauford,  rather  startled 
by  the  sudden  apparition.  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Bar- 
clay; pray  sit  down." 

The  lawyer  was  as  inquisitive  as  a  woman,  and  he 
complied  immediately. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  can  hardly  believe  that. 
I  sincerely  hope  it  is  nothing  very  serious." 

"It  is  nothing  that  can  be  helped,"  said  Fordyce 
hurriedly;  "only  a  difficulty  that  I  am  in." 

"Then  I  may  have  arrived  in  the  nick  of  time,"  said 
Barclay.  "Please  remember  it  is  my  function  to  help 
people  out  of  difficulties.  Come,  come — courage." 


THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  LION  121 

He  spoke  with  a  familiarity  of  manner  which  Crauford 
might  have  resented  had  he  been  less  absorbed  in  his 
misfortunes.  He  had  an  overwhelming  longing  to 
confide  in  someone. 

"What  does  the  proverb  say ?  'Two  heads  are  better 
than  one,'  eh,  Mr.  Fordyce?" 

Crauford  looked  at  him  irresolutely. 

"I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  shall  be  silent,"  said 
the  lawyer  in  his  most  professional  voice. 

Fordyce  had  some  of  the  instincts  of  a  gentleman,  and 
he  hesitated  a  little  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  to 
mention  Cecilia's  name  to  a  stranger  like  Barclay,  but 
he  was  in  such  dire  straits  that  a  sympathiser  was 
everything  to  him,  and  the  fact  that  his  companion 
knew  so  much  of  his  uncle's  affairs  made  confidence 
seem  safe.  Besides  which,  he  was  not  a  quick  reader 
of  character. 

"You  need  not  look  upon  me  as  a  stranger,"  said  the 
lawyer;  "there  is  nothing  that  your  uncle  does  not  tell 
me." 

This  half-truth  seemed  so  plausible  to  Crauford  that 
it  opened  the  floodgates  of  his  heart. 

"You  know  Miss  Raeburn,  of  course,"  he  began. 

Barclay  bowed  and  dropped  his  eye  ostentatiously. 
The  action  seemed  to  imply  that  he  knew  her  more 
intimately  than  anyone  might  suppose. 

"She  is  a  very  exceptional  young  lady.  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  propose  to  her." 

"She  has  not  a  penny,"  broke  in  Barclay. 

"That  is  outside  the  subject,"  replied  Fordyce,  with 
something  very  much  like  dignity.  "I  wrote  to  my 
father,  telling  him  of  my  intention,  and  yesterday  I  got 
his  consent.  He  told  me  to  expect  a  most  liberal 
allowance,  Mr.  Barclay." 

"Naturally,  naturally;  in  your  circumstances  that 
would  be  a  matter  of  course." 

"I  thought  it  best  to  have  Lady  Eliza's  permission 


122  THE  INTERLOPER 

before  doing  anything  further.  I  was  right,  was  I  not, 
sir?" 

"You  acted  in  a  most  gentlemanly  manner." 

"I  went  to  Morphie.  Lady  Eliza  was  cool  with  me, 
I  thought.  I  confess  I  expected  she  would  have  shown 
some — some ' ' 

"Some  gratification — surely,"  finished  Barclay. 

"  I  took  my  father's  letter  with  me,  and  unfortunately, 
I  had  also  one  in  my  pocket  from  my  mother.  It  was 
not  quite  like  my  father's  in  tone;  in  fact,  I  am  afraid  it 
was  written  under  considerable — excitement.  I  think 
she  had  some  other  plan  in  her  mind  for  me.  At  any 
rate,  I  took  it  out,  mistaking  it  for  the  other,  and  gave 
it  to  her  ladyship  to  read.  Mr.  Barclay,  it  was  terrible." 

The  lawyer  was  too  anxious  to  stand  well  with  his 
companion  to  venture  a  smile. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,  tut!"  he  said,  clicking  his  tongue 
against  his  teeth. 

"My  only  comfort  is  that  she  promised  to  say  nothing 
to  Miss  Raeburn;  I  sincerely  trust  she  may  keep  her 
word.  I  am  almost  afraid  she  may  write  to  my  mother, 
and  I  really  do  not  know  what  might  happen  if  she  did. 
That  is  what  I  dread,  and  she  is  capable  of  it." 

"She  is  an  old  termagant,"  said  the  other. 

"  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?     What  can  I  do  ? " 

There  was  a  silence  in  which  the  two  men  sat  without 
speaking  a  word.  Barclay  crossed  his  knees,  and 
clasped  his  hands  round  them;  Fordyce's  eyes  rested 
earnestly  upon  his  complacent  face. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  she  used  to  set  her  cap  at 
your  uncle  years  ago?"  said  the  lawyer  at  last. 

"I  knew  they  were  old  friends." 

"You  must  persuade  him  to  go  and  put  everything 
straight.  He  can  if  he  likes;  she  will  keep  quiet  if  he 
tells  her  to  do  so,  trust  her  for  that.  That's  my  advice, 
and  you  will  never  get  better." 

Fordyce's  face  lightened;  he  had  so  lost  his  sense  of 


THE  MOUSE  AND  THE  LION  123 

the  proportion  of  things  that  this  most  obvious  solution 
had  not  oecured  to  him. 

"It  seems  so  simple  now  that  you  have  suggested  it," 
he  said.  "I  might  have  thought  of  that  for  myself." 

"What  did  I  tell  you  about  the  two  heads,  eh?" 

"Then  you  really  think  that  my  uncle  can  make  it 
smooth?" 

"I  am  perfectly  sure  of  it.  Will  you  take  another 
hint  from  a  well-wisher,  Mr.  Fordyce?" 

"Of  course,  I  shall  be  grateful !" 

"Well,  do  not  let  the  grass  grow  under  your  feet,  for 
Speid  is  looking  that  way  too,  if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

Crauford  made  a  sound  of  impatience. 

Barclay  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  keen  with  interest. 

"Then  you  don't  like  him?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  scarcely  know  him,"  replied  Fordyce,  a  look 
that  delighted  the  lawyer  coming  into  his  face. 

"He  is  one  of  those  who  will  know  you  one  day  and 
look  over  your  head  the  next.  It  would  be  a  shame  if 
you  were  set  aside  for  a  conceited  coxcomb  of  a  fellow 
like  that — a  sulky  brute,  too,  I  believe.  I  hate  him." 

"So  do  I,"  exclaimed  Crauford,  suddenly  and  vehe- 
mently. 

Barclay  wondered  whether  his  companion  had  any 
idea  of  the  tissue  of  rumours  hanging  round  Gilbert,  but 
he  did  not,  just  then,  give  voice  to  the  question.  It  was 
a  subject  which  he  thought  it  best  to  keep  until  another 
time.  Fullarton  might  return  at  any  minute  and  he 
would  be  interrupted.  The  friendly  relations  which  he 
determined  to  establish  between  himself  and  Fordyce 
would  afford  plenty  of  opportunity.  If  he  failed  to 
establish  them,  it  would  be  a  piece  of  folly  so  great  as  to 
merit  reward  from  a  just  Providence.  All  he  could  do 
was  to  blow  on  Crauford's  jealousy — an  inflammable 
thing,  he  suspected — with  any  bellows  that  came  to  his 
hand.  Speid  should  not  have  Cecilia  while  he  was  there 
to  cheer  him  on. 


124  THE  INTERLOPER 

"You  should  get  Mr.  Fullarton  to  go  to  Morphie  to 
morrow,  or  even  this  afternoon;  my  business  with  him 
will  not  take  long,  and  I  shall  make  a  point  of  going 
home  early  and  leaving  you  free." 

"You  are  really  most  kind  to  take  so  much  interest," 
said  Crauford.  "How  glad  I  am  that  I  spoke  to  you 
about  it." 

"The  mouse  helped  the  king  of  beasts  in  the  fable,  you 
see,"  said  the  lawyer. 

The  simile  struck  Crauford  as  a  happy  one.  He  began 
to  regain  his  spirits.  His  personality  had  been  almost 
unhinged  by  his  recent  experience,  and  it  was  a  relief  to 
feel  it  coming  straight  again,  none  the  worse,  apparently, 
for  its  shock. 

Barclay  noted  this  change  with  satisfaction,  knowing 
that  to  reunite  a  man  with  his  pride  is  to  draw  heavily  on 
his  gratitude,  and,  as  Fordyce's  confidence  grew,  he  spoke 
unreservedly;  his  companion  made  him  feel  more  in  his 
right  attitude  toward  the  world  than  anyone  he  had  met 
for  some  time.  Their  common  dislike  of  one  man  was 
exhilarating  to  both,  and  when,  on  seeing  Fullarton 
emerge  from  the  French  window  some  time  later,  they 
rose  and  strolled  towards  the  house,  they  felt  that  there 
was  a  bond  between  them  almost  amounting  to  friend- 
ship. At  least  that  was  Crauford 's  feeling;  Barclay 
might  have  omitted  the  qualifying  word. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GRANNY    TAKES    A   STRONG   ATTITUDE 

IF  an  Englishman's  house  is  his  castle,  a  Scotchman's 
cottage  is  his  fortress.  The  custom  prevailing  in 
England  by  which  the  upper  and  middle  classes  will 
walk,  uninvited  and  unabashed,  into  a  poor  man's 
abode  has  never  been  tolerated  by  the  prouder  dwellers 
north  of  the  Tweed.  Here,  proximity  does  not  imply 
familiarity.  It  is  true  that  the  Englishman,  or  more 
probably  the  Englishwoman,  who  thus  invades  the 
labouring  man's  family  will  often  do  so  on  a  charitable 
errand;  but,  unless  the  Scot  is  already  on  friendly 
terms  with  his  superior  neighbour,  he  neither  desires 
his  charity  nor  his  company.  Once  invited  into  the 
house,  his  visit  will  at  all  times  be  welcomed;  but  the 
visitor  will  do  well  to  remember,  as  he  sits  in  the  best 
chair  at  the  hearth,  that  he  does  so  by  privilege  alone. 
The  ethics  of  this  difference  in  custom  are  not  under- 
stood by  parochial  England,  though  its  results,  one 
would  think,  are  plain  enough.  Among  the  working 
classes  of  European  nations  the  Scot  is  the  man  who 
stands  most  preeminently  upon  his  own  feet,  and  it  is 
likely  that  the  Millennium,  when  it  dawns,  will  find  him 
still  doing  the  same  thing. 

When  Granny  Stirk,  months  before,  had  stood  at  her 
door,  and  cried,  "  Haste  ye  back,  then,"  to  Gilbert  Speid, 
she  meant  what  she  said,  and  was  taken  at  her  word,  for 
he  returned  some  days  after  the  roup,  and  his  visit  was 
the  first  of  many.  Her  racy  talk,  her  shrewd  sense, 
and  the  masterly  way  in  which  she  dominated  her 

125 


126  THE  INTERLOPER 

small  world  pleased  him,  and  he  guessed  that  her 
friendship,  once  given,  would  be  a  solid  thing.  He  had 
accepted  it,  and  he  returned  it.  She  made  surprising 
confidences  and  asked  very  direct  questions,  in  the 
spring  evenings  when  the  light  was  growing  daily,  and 
he  would  stroll  out  to  her  cottage  for  half  an  hour's 
talk.  She  advised  him  lavishly  on  every  subject,  from 
underclothing  to  the  choice  of  a  wife  and  her  subsequent 
treatment,  and  from  these  conversations  he  learned 
much  of  the  temper  and  customs  of  those  surrounding 
him. 

In  the  seven  months  which  had  elapsed  since  his 
arrival  he  had  learned  to  understand  his  poorer  neigh- 
bours better  than  his  richer  ones.  The  atmosphere 
of  the  place  was  beginning  to  sink  into  him,  and  his 
tenants  and  labourers  had  decided  that  they  liked 
him  very  well ;  for,  though  there  were  many  things  in 
him  completely  foreign  to  their  ideas,  they  had  taken 
these  on  trust  in  consideration  of  other  merits  which 
they  recognised.  But,  with  his  equals,  he  still  felt 
himself  a  stranger;  there  were  few  men  of  his  own  age 
among  the  neighbouring  lairds,  and  those  he  had  met 
were  as  local  in  character  as  the  landscape.  Not  c/ne 
had  ever  left  his  native  country,  or  possessed  much 
notion  of  anything  outside  its  limits.  He  would  have 
been  glad  to  see  mor*e  of  Fullarton,  but  the  elder  man 
had  an  unaccountable  reserve  in  his  manner  toward 
him  which  did  not  encourage  any  advance.  Crauford 
Fordyce  he  found  both  ridiculous  and  irritating.  The 
women  to  whom  he  had  been  introduced  did  not  impress 
him  in  any  way,  and  four  only  had  entered  his  life — • 
the  Miss  Robertsons,  who  were  his  relations;  Lady  Eliza, 
who  by  turns  amused,  interested,  and  repelled  him; 
and  Cecilia  Raeburn,  with  whom  he  was  in  love.  The 
two  people  most  congenial  to  him  were  Granny  Stirk 
and  Captain  Somerville. 

Between  himself  and  the  sailor  a  cordial  feeling  had 


GRANNY  TAKES  A  STRONG  ATTITUDE   127 

grown,  as  it  will  often  grow  between  men  whose  horizon 
is  wider  than  that  of  the  society  in  which  they  live,  and, 
though  Somerville  was  almost  old  enough  to  be  Speid's 
grandfather,  the  imperishable  youth  that  bubbled  up  in 
his  heart  kept  it  in  touch  with  that  wide  world  in  which 
he  had  worked  and  fought,  and  which  he  still  loved  like 
a  boy.  The  episode  at  the  dovecote  of  Morphie  had 
served  to  cement  the  friendship. 

Jimmy  Stirk  also  reckoned  himself  among  Gilbert's 
allies.  Silent,  sullen,  fervid,  his  mind  and  energies 
concentrated  upon  the  business  of  his  day,  he  mentally 
contrasted  every  gentleman  he  met  with  the  laird  of 
Whanland,  weighed  him,  and  found  him  wanting.  The 
brown  horse,  whose  purchase  had  been  such  an  event  in 
his  life,  did  his  work  well,  and  the  boy  expended  a  good 
deal  more  time  upon  his  grooming  than  upon  that  of  the 
mealy  chestnut  which  shared  the  shed  behind  the  cottage 
with  the  newcomer,  and  had  once  been  its  sole  occupant. 
On  finding  himself  owner  of  a  more  respectable-looking 
piece  of  horseflesh  than  he  had  ever  thought  to  possess, 
he  searched  his  mind  for  a  name  with  which  to  ornament 
his  property;  it  took  him  several  days  to  decide  that 
Rob  Roy  being,  to  his  imagination,  the  most  glorious 
hero  ever  created,  he  would  christen  the  horse  in  his 
honour.  His  grandmother,  systematically  averse  to 
new  notions,  cast  scorn  on  what  she  called  his  "havers"; 
but  as  time  went  by,  and  she  saw  that  no  impression 
was  made  upon  Jimmy,  she  ended  in  using  the  name  as 
freely  as  if  she  had  bestowed  it  herself. 

It  occurred  to  Mr.  Barclay,  after  leaving  Fullarton, 
that,  as  Granny  Stirk  knew  more  about  other  people's 
business  than  anyone  he  could  think  of,  he  would  do 
sensibly  in  paying  her  a  visit.  That  Gilbert  often  sat 
talking  with  her  was  perfectly  well  known  to  him,  and  if 
she  had  any  ideas  about  the  state  of  his  affections  and 
intentions,  and  could  be  induced  to  reveal  her  knowledge, 
it  would  be  valuable  matter  to  retail  to  Fordyce,  Her 


128  THE  INTERLOPER 

roof  had  been  mended  a  couple  of  months  since,  and  he 
had  made  the  arrangements  for  it,  so  he  was  no  stranger 
to  the  old  woman.  It  behoved  him  in  his  character  of 
"man  of  business"  to  examine  the  work  that  had  been 
done,  for  he  had  not  seen  it  since  its  completion.  He 
directed  his  man  to  drive  to  the  cottage,  and  sat  smiling, 
as  he  rolled  along,  at  the  remembrance  of  Fordyce's 
dilemma  and  his  own  simple  solution  of  it. 

Jimmy's  cart,  with  Rob  Roy  in  the  shafts,  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door,  and  had  to  be  moved  away  to  enable 
him  to  draw  up;  it  had  been  freshly  painted,  and  the 
three  divisions  of  the  tailboard  contained  each  a  coloured 
device.  In  the  centre  panel  was  the  figure  of  a  fish; 
those  at  the  sides  bore  each  a  mermaid  holding  a  looking- 
glass;  the  latter  were  the  arms  of  the  town  of  Kaims. 
Barclay  alighted,  heavily  and  leisurely,  from  his  phaeton. 

"How  is  the  business,  my  laddie?"  he  enquired 
affably,  and  in  a  voice  which  he  thought  suitable  to  the 
hearty  habits  of  the  lower  orders. 

"It's  fine,"  said  Jimmy. 

"The  horse  is  doing  well eh?" 

"He's  fine,"  said  Jimmy  again. 

"And  your  grandmother?  I  hope  she  is  keeping  well 
this  good  weather." 

"She's  fine." 

True  to  his  friendly  pose,  the  lawyer  walked  round  the 
cart,  running  his  eye  over  it  and  the  animal  in  its  shafts 
with  as  knowing  an  expression  as  he  could  assume.  As 
he  paused  beside  Rob  Roy  he  laid  his  hand  suddenly  on 
his  quarter,  after  the  manner  of  people  unaccustomed 
to  horses ;  the  nervous  little  beast  made  a  plunge  forward 
which  nearly  knocked  Jimmy  down,  and  sent  Barclay 
flying  to  the  sanctuary  of  the  doorstep.  His  good- 
humour  took  flight  also. 

"Nasty,  restive  brute  !"  he  exclaimed. 

The  boy  gave  him  an  expressive  look;  he  was  not  apt 
to  pay  much  attention  to  anyone,  whether  gentle  or 


GRANNY  TAKES  A  STRONG  ATTITUDE  129 

simple,  beyond  the  pale  of  his  own  affairs,  and  Barclay 
had  hitherto  been  outside  his  world.  He  now  entered 
it  as  an  object  of  contempt. 

The  sudden  rattle  of  the  cart  brought  Granny  to  the 
door. 

"That  is  a  very  dangerous  horse  of  yours,"  said  the 
lawyer,  turning  round. 

"Whisht!  whisht!"  exclaimed  she,  "it  was  the  laird 
got  yon  shelt  to  him ;  he'll  no  thole  *  to  hear  ye  speak 
that  way." 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Barclay,  recalled  to  his 
object. 

She  ushered  him  into  the  cottage. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  have  heard  about  that,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  sat  down.  "  No  doubt  Jimmy  is  proud  of  the  episode ; 
it  is  not  often  a  gentleman  concerns  himself  so  much 
about  his  tenant's  interests.  I  dare  say,  Mrs.  Stirk,  that 
you  have  no  wish  to  change  your  landlord,  eh?" 

"No  for  onybody  hereabout,"  said  the  old  woman. 

"Then  I  gather  that  you  are  no  admirer  of  our  gentry  ?  " 

"A'  wasna  saying  that." 

"But  perhaps  you  meant  it.  We  do  not  always  say 
what  we  mean,  do  we?"  said  Barclay,  raising  his  eye- 
brows facetiously. 

"Whiles  a'  do,"  replied  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers, 
with  some  truth. 

"You  speak  your  mind  plainly  enough  to  Mr.  Speid, 
I  believe,"  said  Barclay. 

"Whatell'tyethat?" 

"Aha!  everything  comes  round  to  me  in  time,  I 
assure  you,  my  good  soul;  my  business  is  confidential— 
very  confidential.  You  see,  as  a  lawyer,  I  am  con- 
cerned with  all  the  estates  in  this  part  of  the  country." 

"Where  the  money  is,  there  will  the  blayguards  be 
gathered  together,"  said  Granny,  resenting  the  patronage 
in  his  tone. 

*  Endure. 


130  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Come,  come!  that  is  surely  rather  severe,"  said 
Barclay,  forcing  a  smile.  "You  don't  treat  the  laird  in 
that  way  when  he  comes  to  see  you,  I  am  sure ;  he  would 
not  come  so  often  if  you  did." 

"  He  canna  come  ower  muckle  for  me." 

"  What  will  you  do  when  he  gets  a  wife  ?  He  will  not 
have  so  much  idle  time  then." 

"Maybe  she'll  come  wi'  him." 

"That'll  depend  on  what  kind  of  lady  she  is,"  ob- 
served Barclay;  "she  may  be  too  proud." 

"Then  Whanland  '11  no  tak'  her,"  replied  Granny 
decisively. 

It  did  not  escape  Mrs.  Stirk  that  Barclay,  who  had 
never  before  paid  her  a  visit  unconnected  with  business, 
had  now  some  special  motive  for  doing  so.  It  was  in 
her  mind  to  state  the  fact  baldly  and  gratify  herself 
with  the  sight  of  the  result,  but  she  decided  to  keep 
this  pleasure  until  she  had  discovered  something  more 
of  his  object.  She  sat  silent,  waiting  for  his  next 
observation.  She  had  known  human  nature  intimately 
all  her  life,  and  much  of  it  had  been  spent  in  driving 
bargains.  She  was  not  going  to  speak  first. 

"Well,  every  man  ought  to  marry,"  said  Barclay  at 
last;  "don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Stirk?" 

"Whiles  it's  so  easy  done,"  said  she;  "ye  havna 
managed  it  yersel',  Mr.  Barclay." 

"Nobody  would  have  me,  you  see,"  said  the  lawyer, 
chuckling  in  the  manner  of  one  who  makes  so  pre- 
posterous a  joke  that  he  must  needs  laugh  at  it  himself. 

"Ye'll  just  hae  to  bide  as  ye  are,"  observed  Granny 
consolingly;  "maybe  it  would  be  ill  to  change  at  your 
time  of  life." 

Barclay's  laugh  died  away ;  he  seemed  to  be  no  nearer 
his  goal  than  when  he  sat  down,  and  Granny's  gener- 
alities were  not  congenial  to  him.  He  plunged  into  his 
subject. 

"I  think  Mr.  Speid  should  marry,  at  any  rate,"  he 


GRANNY  TAKES  A  STRONG  ATTITUDE   131 

said;  "and  if  report  says  true,  it  will  not  be  long  before 
he  does  so." 

A  gleam  came  into  the  old  woman's  eye ;  she  could  not 
imagine  her  visitor's  motives,  but  she  saw  what  he 
wanted,  and  determined  instantly  that  he  should  not 
get  it.  Like  many  others,  she  had  heard  the  report 
that  Gilbert  Speid  was  paying  his  addresses  to  Lady 
Eliza  Lamont's  adopted  niece,  and  in  her  secret  soul 
had  made  up  her  mind  that  Cecilia  was  not  good  enough 
for  him.  All  femininity,  in  her  eyes,  shared  that  short- 
coming. 

"He'll  please  himsel',  na  doubt,"  she  observed. 

"But  do  you  think  there  is  any  truth  in  what  we 
hear?"  continued  Barclay. 

"A'll  tell  ye  that  when  a'  ken  what  ye're  speirin' 
about." 

"Do  you  believe  that  he  is  courting  Miss  Raeburn?" 
he  asked,  compelled  to  directness. 

"There's  jus'  twa  that  can  answer  that,"  said  Granny, 
leaning  forward  and  looking  mysterious;  "ane's  Whan- 
land,  and  ane's  the  lassie." 

"Everybody  says  it  is  true,  Mrs.  Stirk." 

"A'body's  naebody,"  said  the  old  woman,  "an'  you 
an'  me's  less." 

"It  would  be  a  very  suitable  match,  in  my  opinion," 
said  the  lawyer,  trying  another  tack. 

"Aweel,  a'll  just  tell  Whanland  ye  was  speirin'  about 
it,"  replied  Granny.  "A'  can  easy  ask  him.  He 
doesna  mind  what  a'  say  to  him." 

"No,  no,  my  good  woman'  don't  trouble  yourself  to 
do  that !  Good  Lord !  it  does  not  concern  me." 

"A"  ken  that,  but  there's  no  mony  folk  waits  to  be 
concairned  when  they're  seeking  news.  A'  can  easy 
do  it,  sir.  A'  tell  ye,  he'll  no  tak'  it  ill  o'  me." 

"Pray  do  not  dream  of  doing  such  a  thing  ! "  exclaimed 
Barclay.  "  Really,  it  is  of  no  possible  interest  to  me.  Mrs. 
Stirk,  I  must  forbid  you  to  say  anything  to  Mr.  Speid." 


132  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Dod!  ye  needna  fash  yersel';  a'll  do  it  canny-like. 
'Laird,'  a'll  say,  'Mr.  Barclay  would  no  have  ye  think 
it  concairns  him,  but  he'd  like  fine  to  ken  if  ye're  courtin' 
Miss  Raeburn.  He  came  here  sperm'  at  me,'  a'll 
say " 

"You  will  say  nothing  of  the  sort,"  cried  he.  "Why 
I  should  even  have  mentioned  it  to  you  I  cannot  think." 

"A'  dinna  understand  that  mysel',"  replied  Granny. 

All  Barclay's  desire  for  discovery  had  flown  before  his 
keen  anxiety  to  obliterate  the  matter  from  his  com- 
panion's mind.  He  cleared  his  throat  noisily. 
1  "Let  us  get  to  business,"  he  said.  "What  I  came 
here  for  was  not  to  talk ;  I  have  come  to  ask  whether  the 
repairs  in  the  roof  are  satisfactory,  and  to  see  what  has 
been  done.  I  have  had  no  time  to  do  so  before.  My 
time  is  precious." 

"It'll  do  weel  eneuch.  A'  let  Whanland  see  it  when 
he  was  in-by,"  replied  she  casually. 

"It's  my  duty  to  give  personal,  inspection  to  all 
repairs  in  tenants'  houses,"  said  he,  getting  up. 

She  rose  also,  and  preceded  him  into  the  little  scullery 
which  opened  off  the  back  of  the  kitchen;  it  smelt 
violently  of  fish,  for  Jimmy's  working  clothes  hung  on  a 
peg  by  the  door.  Barclay's  nose  wrinkled. 

She  was  pointing  out  the  place  he  wished  to  see  when 
a  step  sounded  outside,  and  a  figure  passed  the  window. 
Someone  knocked  with  the  head  of  a  stick  upon  the 
door. 

"Yen's  the  laird!"  exclaimed  Granny,  hurrying  back 
into  the  kitchen. 

Barclay's  heart  was  turned  to  water,  for  he  knew  that 
the  old  woman  was  quite  likely  to  confront  him  with 
Speid,  and  demand  in  his  name  an  answer  to  the  ques- 
tions he  had  been  asking.  He  turned  quickly  from  the 
door  leading  from  scullery  to  yard,  and  lifted  the  latch 
softly.  As  he  slipped  out  he  passed  Jimmy,  who,  with 
loud  hissings,  was  grooming  Rob  Roy. 


GRANNY  TAKES  A  STRONG  ATTITUDE   133 

"Tell  your  grandmother  that  I  am  in  a  hurry,"  he 
cried.  "Tell  her  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  the  roof." 

"Sit  down,  Whanland,"  said  Granny,  dusting  the 
wooden  armchair  as  though  the  contact  of  the  lawyer's 
body  had  made  it  unfit  for  Gilbert's  use;  "yon  man 
rinnin'  awa's  Mr.  Barclay.  Dinna  tak'  tent  o'  him,  but 
bide  ye  here  till  a'  tell  ye  this." 

The  sun  was  getting  low  and  its  slanting  rays  streamed 
into  the  room.  As  Gilbert  sat  down  his  outline  was 
black  against  the  window.  The  light  was  burning  gold 
behind  him,  and  Granny  could  not  see  his  face,  or  she 
would  have  noticed  that  he  looked  harassed  and  tired. 

It  was  pure  loyalty  which  had  made  her  repress 
Barclay,  for  curiosity  was  strong  in  her,  and  it  had  cost 
her  something  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  extracting  what 
knowledge  she  could.  But  though  she  had  denied  her- 
self this,  she  meant  to  speak  freely  to  Gilbert.  The 
lawyer  had  escaped  through  her  fingers  and  robbed  her 
of  further  sport,  but  she  was  determined  that  Speid 
should  know  of  his  questions.  She  resented  them  as  a 
great  impertinence  to  him,  and  as  an  even  greater  one 
to  herself.  She  was  inclined  to  be  suspicious  of  people 
in  general,  and  everything  connected  with  her  landlord 
made  her  smell  the  battle  afar  off,  like  Job's  war-horse, 
and  prepare  to  range  herself  on  his  side. 

"Laird,  are  ye  to  get  married?"  said  she,  seating 
herself  opposite  to  the  young  man. 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,"  said  Gilbert.  "Why  do 
you  ask,  Granny?  Do  you  think  I  ought  to?" 

"A'  couldna  say  as  to  that,  but  Mr.  Barclay  says  ye 
should." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  it?"  exclaimed  Gilbert,  his 
brows  lowering. 

"Pegs!  A'  would  hae  liked  terrible  to  ask  him  that 
mysel'.  He  came  ben  an'  he  began,  an'  says  he,  'A've 
heard  tell  he's  to  get  married,'  says  he;  an'  'What  do  ye 
think  about  it  ? '  says  he.  A'  was  that  angered,  ye  ken, 


i34  THE  INTERLOPER 

laird,  an'  a'  just  says  till  him,  'Just  wait,'  says  I,  'an' 
a'll  speir  at  him,'  says  I,  'an'  then  ye'll  ken.  A'll  tell 
him  ye're  terrible  taken  up  about  it — impident  deevil 
that  ye  are.'  A'  didna  say  'deevil'  to  him,  ye  ken, 
laird,  but  a'  warrant  ye  a'  thocht  it.  What  has  the 
likes  of  him  to  do  wi'  you  ?  Dod !  a'  could  see  by  the 
face  o'  him  he  wasna  pleased  when  a'  said  a'd  tell  ye. 
'My  good  woman,'  says  he  " — here  Granny  stuck  out  her 
lips  in  imitation  of  Barclay's  rather  protrusive  mouth, 
"  'dinna  fash  yersel'  to  do  that;'  an'  syne  when  ye  came 
in-by,  he  was  roond  about  an'  up  the  road  like  an  auld 
dog  that's  got  a  skelp  wi'  a  stick." 

"Did  he  say  anything  more?"  inquired  Gilbert 
gravely. 

"Ay,  did  he — but  maybe  a'll  anger  ye,  Whanland." 

"No,  no,  Granny,  you  know  that.  I  have  a  reason  for 
asking.  Tell  me  everything  he  said." 

"Ye'll  see  an'  no  be  angered,  laird?" 

"Not  with  you,  Granny,  in  any  case." 

"Well,  he  was  sayin'  a'body  says*  ye're  courtin'  Miss 
Raeburn.  'Let  me  get  a  sicht  o'  the  roof,'  says  he, 
'that's  what  a'  come  here  for.'  By  Jarvit !  he  didna 
care  very  muckle  about  that,  for  a'  the  lang  words  he 
was  spittin'  out  about  it !" 

Gilbert  got  up,  and  stood  on  the  hearth  with  his  head 
turned  from  the  old  woman. 

"A've  vexed  ye,"  she  said,  when  she  saw  his  face 
again. 

"Listen  to  me,  Granny,"  he  began  slowly;  "I  am  very 
much  annoyed  that  he — or  anyone — should  have  joined 
that  lady's  name  and  mine  together.  Granny,  if  you 
have  any  friendship  for  me,  if  you  would  do  me  a  kind- 
ness, you  will  never  let  a  word  of  what  you  have  heard 
come  from  your  lips." 

As  he  stood  looking  down  on  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers 
the  light  from  the  evening  sun  was  full  upon  her  marked 
features  and  the  gold  ear-rings  in  her  ears. 


GRANNY  TAKES  A  STRONG  ATTITUDE  135 

"Ye  needna  fear,  Whanland,"  she  said  simply. 

"I  will  tell  you  why,"  burst  out  Gilbert,  a  sudden 
impulse  to  confidence  rushing  to  his  heart  like  a  wave; 
"it  is  true,  Granny — that  is  the  reason.  If  I  cannot 
marry  her  I  shall  never  be  happy  again." 

Sitting  alone  that  night,  he  asked  himself  why  he 
should  have  spoken. 

What  power,  good  or  evil,  is  answerable  for  the  sudden 
gusts  of  change  that  shake  us  ?  Why  do  we  sometimes 
turn  traitor  to  our  own  character?  How  is  it  that 
forces,  foreign  to  everything  in  our  nature,  will,  at  some 
undreamed-of  instant,  sweep  us  from  the  attitude  we 
have  maintained  all  our  lives  ?  The  answer  is  that  our 
souls  are  more  sensitive  than  our  brains. 

But  Gilbert,  as  he  thought  of  his  act,  did  not  blame 
himself.  Neither  did  eternal  wisdom,  which  watched 
from  afar  and  saw  everything. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PLAIN    SPEAKING 

THE  outward  signs  of  Lady  Eliza's  wrath  endured  for 
a  few  days  after  Crauford's  untimely  mistake,  and  then 
began  to  die  a  lingering  death;  but  her  determination 
that  the  enemy  should  make  amends  was  unabated. 
In  her  heart,  she  did  not  believe  that  Cecilia  cared  for 
her  suitor,  and  that  being  the  case,  she  knew  her  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  nothing  would  make  her  marry 
him.  For  this  she  was  both  glad  and  sorry.  It  would 
have  been  easy,  as  Crauford  had  applied  to  her,  to  dis- 
cover the  state  of  the  girl's  feelings ;  and  should  she  find 
her  unwilling  to  accept  him,  convey  the  fact  to  Fullarton 
and  so  end  the  matter. 

But  that  course  was  not  at  all  to  her  mind;  Lady 
Fordyce  should,  if  Cecilia  were  so  inclined,  pay  for  her 
words.  She  should  write  the  letter  her  son  had  under- 
taken to  procure,  and  he  should  present  it  and  be  refused. 
She  was  thinking  of  that  as  she  sat  on  a  bench  in  the 
garden  at  Morphie,  and  she  smiled  rather  fiercely. 

The  development  she  promised  herself  was,  perhaps,  a 
little  hard  on  Crauford,  but,  as  we  all  know,  the  sins  of 
the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  children,  and  that  did 
not  concern  her;  written  words  had  the  powerful  effect 
upon  her  that  they  have  upon  most  impulsive  people. 
She  was  no  schemer,  and  was  the  last  being  on  earth  to 
sit  down  deliberately  to  invent  trouble  for  anyone;  but 
all  the  abortive  maternity  in  her  had  expended  itself  upon 
Cecilia,  and  to  slight  her  was  the  unforgivable  sin. 

She  sat  in  the  sun  looking  down  the  garden  to  the 

136 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  137 

fruit-covered  wall,  her  shady  hat,  which,  owing,  perhaps, 
to  the  wig  beneath  it,  was  seldom  at  the  right  angle, 
pulled  over  her  eyes.  No  other  lady  of  those  days 
would  have  worn  such  headgear,  but  Lady  Eliza  made 
her  own  terms  with  fashion.  All  the  hot  part  of  the 
afternoon  she  had  been  working,  for  her  garden  produce 
interested  her,  and  she  was  apt  to  do  a  great  deal  with 
her  own  hands  which  could  more  safely  have  been  left 
to  the  gardeners.  Cecilia,  who  was  picking  fruit,  had 
forced  her  to  rest  while  she  finished  the  work,  and  her 
figure  could  be  seen  a  little  way  off  in  a  lattice  of  rasp- 
berry bushes;  the  elder  woman's  eyes  followed  her 
every  movement.  Whether  she  married  Fordyce  or 
whether  she  did  not,  the  bare  possibility  seemed  to  bring 
the  eventual  separation  nearer,  and  make  it  more 
inevitable.  Lady  Eliza  had  longed  for  such  an  event, 
prayed  for  it;  but  now  that  it  had  come  she  dreaded 
it  too  much.  It  was  scarcely  ever  out  of  her  mind. 

When  her  basket  was  full  Cecilia  came  up  the  path 
and  set  it  down  before  the  bench.  "There  is  not  room 
for  one  more,"  she  said  lightly. 

"Sit  down,  child,"  said  her  companion;  "you  look 
quite  tired.  We  have  got  plenty  now.  That  will  be — 
let  me  see — five  baskets.  I  shall  send  two  to  Miss 
Robertson — she  has  only  a  small  raspberry-bed — and 
the  rest  are  for  jam." 

"Then  perhaps  I  had  better  go  in  and  tell  the  cook,  or 
she  will  put  on  all  five  to  boil." 

"No,  my  dear,  never  mind;  stay  here.  Cecilia, 
has  it  occurred  to  you  that  we  may  not  be  together 
very  long?" 

The  idea  was  so  unexpected  that  Cecilia  was  startled, 
and  the  blood  left  her  face.  For  one  moment  she  thought 
that  Lady  Eliza  must  have  some  terrible  news  to  break, 
some  suddenly  acquired  knowledge  of  a  mortal  disease. 

"Why?"  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  aunt,  what  do  you 
mean?" 


i38  THE  INTERLOPER 

"I  suppose  you  will  marry,  Cecilia.  In  fact,  you 
must  some  day." 

The  blood  came  back  rather  violently. 

"Don't  let  us  think  of  that,  ma'am,"  she  said,  turning 
away  her  head. 

"You  do  not  want/to  leave  me,  Cecilia?" 

The  two  women  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  the 
younger  laid  her  hand  on  that  of  her  companion.  The 
other  seized  it  convulsively,  a  spasm  of  pain  crossing 
her  features. 

"My  little  girl,"  she  said;  "my  darling  1" 

In  those  days,  endearments,  now  made  ineffective  by 
use  and  misuse,  had  some  meaning.  Young  people 
addressed  their  elders  as  "ma'am  "  and  "sir,"  and  equals, 
who  were  also  intimates,  employed  much  formality  of 
speech.  While  this  custom  was  an  unquestionable  bar 
to  confidence  between  parents  and  children,  it  empha- 
sised any  approach  made  by  such  as  had  decided  to 
depart  from  it;  also,  it  bred  strange  mixtures.  To 
address  those  of  your  acquaintance  who  had  titles  as 
"your  lordship"  or  "your  ladyship"  was  then  no  sole- 
cism. Women,  in  speaking  to  their  husbands  or  their 
men  friends,  would  either  use  their  full  formal  names  or 
dispense  with  prefix  altogether;  and  Lady  Eliza,  whose 
years  of  friendship  with  Fullarton  more  than  justified 
his  Christian  name  on  her  tongue,  callqd  him  "Fullar- 
ton," "Robert,"  or  "Mr.  Fullarton,"  with  the  same 
ease,  while  to  him  she  was  equally  "your  ladyship"  or 
"Eliza."  Miss  Hersey  Robertson  spoke  to  "Gilbert" 
in  the  same  breath  in  which  she  addressed  "Mr.  Speid." 

Though  Cecilia  called  her  adopted  aunt  "ma'am," 
there  existed  between  them  an  intimacy  due,  not  only 
to  love,  but  to  the  quality  of  their  respective  natures. 
The  expectancy  of  youth  which  had  died  so  hard  in 
Lady  Eliza  had  been  more  nearly  realised  in  the  loyal  and 
tender  devotion  of  her  adopted  niece  than  in  any  other 
circumstance  in  life.  There  was  so  fine  a  sympathy  in 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  139 

Cecilia,  so  great  a  faculty  for  seizing  the  innermost  soul 
of  things,  that  the  pathos  of  her  aunt's  character,  its 
nobility,  its  foibles,  its  prejudices,  its  very  absurdities, 
were  seen  by  her  through  the  clear  light  of  an  under- 
standing love. 

"I  suppose  you  have  guessed  why  Mr.  Crauford 
Fordyce  has  been  here  so  much?"  said  Lady  Eliza  in  a 
few  minutes.  "You  know  his  feelings,  I  am  sure." 

"He  has  said  nothing  to  me." 

"But  he  has  spoken  to  me.  We  shall  have  to  decide 
it,  Cecilia.  You  know  it  would  be  a  very  proper  marriage 
for  you,  if — if—  He  annoyed  me  very  much  the 
other  day,  but  there  is  no  use  in  talking  about  it.  Marry 
him  if  you  like,  my  dear — God  knows,  I  ought  not  to 
prevent  you.  I  can't  bear  his  family,  Cecilia,  though 
he  is  Fullarton's  nephew — insolent  fellow !  I  have  no 
doubt  he  is  a  very  worthy  young  man.  You  ought  to 
consider  it." 

"What  did  you  say  to  him,  ma'am ? " 

"Oh — well,  I  cannot  exactly  tell  you,  my  dear.  I 
would  not  bias  you  for  the  world." 

"But  you  promised  him  nothing,  aunt?  You  do  not 
mean  that  you  wish  me  to  accept  him?"  exclaimed 
Cecilia,  growing  pale  again. 

"You  are  to  do  what  you  please.  I  have  no  doubt  he 
will  have  the  face  to  come  again.  I  wish  you  were 
settled." 

"If  he  were  the  only  man  in  the  world,  I  would  not 
marry  him,"  said  the  girl  firmly. 

"Thank  Heaven,  Cecilia!  What  enormous  front 
teeth  he  has — they  are  like  family  tombstones.  Take 
the  raspberries  to  the  cook,  my  dear;  I  am  so  happy." 

As  Cecilia  went  into  the  house  a  man  who  had  ridden 
up  to  the  stable  and  left  his  horse  there  entered  the 
garden.  Fullarton's  shadow  lay  across  the  path,  and 
Lady  Eliza  looked  up  to  find  him  standing  by  her. 
Her  thoughts  had  been  far  away,  but  she  came  back  to 


140  THE  INTERLOPER 

the  present  with  a  thrill.  He  took  a  letter  from  his 
pocket,  and  handed  it  to  her,  smiling. 

"This  is  from  my  sister,"  he  said.  "If  you  knew  her 
as  well  as  I  do  you  would  understand  that  it  has  taken 
us  some  trouble  to  get  it.  But  here  it  is.  Be  lenient, 
Eliza." 

Robert,  if  he  had  given  himself  the  gratification  of 
teasing  his  nephew,  had  yet  expressed  himself  willing 
to  take  the  part  of  Noah's  dove,  and  go  out  across  the 
troubled  waters  to  look  for  a  piece  of  dry  land  and  an 
olive-branch.  His  task  had  not  been  an  easy  one  at 
first,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  make  a  personal  matter 
of  it  before  he  could  smooth  the  path  of  the  unlucky 
lover.  But  his  appeal  was  one  which  could  not  fail, 
and,  as  a  concession  to  himself,  his  friend  had  consented 
to  look  with  favour  upon  Crauford,  should  he  return 
bringing  the  letter  she  demanded. 

Having  disposed  of  one  difficulty,  Fullarton  found 
that  his  good  offices  were  not  to  end ;  he  was  allowed  no 
rest  until  he  sat  down  with  his  pen  to  bring  his  sister, 
Lady  Fordyce,  to  a  more  reasonable  point  of  view  and  a 
suitable  expression  of  it.  As  he  had  expected,  she  proved 
far  more  obdurate  than  Lady  Eliza;  for  her  there  was 
no  glamour  round  him  to  ornament  his  requests.  "God 
gave  you  friends,  and  the  devil  gave  you  relations," 
says  the  proverb,  but  it  does  not  go  on  to  say  which 
power  gave  a  man  the  woman  who  loves  him.  Perhaps 
it  is  sometimes  one  and  sometimes  the  other.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  though  Robert  returned  successful  from  Morphie, 
it  took  him  more  time  and  pains  to  deal  with  Lady 
Fordyce  than  he  had  ever  thought  to  expend  on 
anybody. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  bench  while  Lady  Eliza  drew 
off  her  gloves  and  began  to  break  the  seal  with  her 
tapered  fingers.  He  wondered,  as  he  had  done  many 
times,  at  their  whiteness  and  the  beauty  of  their  shape. 

"You  have  the  most  lovely  hands  in  the  world,  my 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  141 

lady,"  he  said  at  last;  "some  of  the  hands  in  Vandyke's 
portraits  are  like  them,  but  no  others." 

He  was  much  relieved  by  having  finished  his  share  in 
a  business  which  had  begun  to  weary  him,  and  his 
spirits  were  happily  attuned.  She  blushed  up  to  the 
edge  of  her  wig ;  in  all  her  life  he  had  never  said  such  a 
thing  to  her.  Her  fingers  shook  so  that  she  could 
hardly  open  the  letter.  She  gave  it  to  him. 

"Open  it,"  she  said;  " my  hands  are  stiff  with  picking 
fruit." 

He  took  it  complacently  and  spread  it  out  before  her. 

It  was  Crauford's  distressed  appeals  rather  than  her 
brother's  counsels  which  had  moved  Lady  Fordyce. 
She  was  really  fond  of  her  son,  and,  in  company  with 
almost  every  mother  who  has  children  of  both  sexes,  re- 
served her  daughters  as  receptacles  for  the  overflowings 
of  her  temper;  they  were  the  hills  that  attract  the 
thunderstorms  from  the  plain.  Crauford  was  the  plain, 
and  Sir  Thomas  represented  sometimes  one  of  these 
natural  objects  and  sometimes  the  other.  Of  late  the 
whole  household  had  been  one  long  chain  of  mountains. 

She  was  unaware  of  what  had  happened  to  her  former 
letter ;  uncle  and  nephew  had  agreed  that  it  was  unneces- 
sary to  inform  her  of  it,  and  Robert  had  merely  explained 
that  Crauford  would  not  be  suffered  by  Lady  Eliza  to 
approach  his  divinity  without  the  recommendation  of 
her  special  approval.  It  was  a  happy  way  of  putting  it. 

"Mv  DEAR  CRAUFORD, 

"I  trust  that  I,  of  all  people,  understand  that  it  is 
not  wealth  and  riches  which  make  true  happiness,  and  I 
shall  be  glad  if  you  will  assure  Lady  Eliza  Lamont  that 
you  have  my  consent  in  addressing  the  young  lady  who 
is  under  her  protection.  I  shall  hope  to  become  acquainted 
with  her  before  she  enters  our  family,  and  also  with  her 
ladyship.  I  remain,  my  dear  Crauford, 

"Your  affectionate  mother, 

"LOUISA  CHARLOTTE  FORDYCE. 


i42  THE  INTERLOPER 

"P.S. — When  do  you  intend  to  return  home?" 

She  ran  her  eyes  over  the  paper  and  returned  it  to 
Fullarton. 

"From  my  sister  that  is  a  great  deal,"  he  observed; 
"more  than  you  can  imagine  She  has  always  been  a 
difficulty.  As  children  we  suffered  from  her,  for  she  was 
the  eldest,  and  my  life  was  made  hard  by  her  when  I  was 
a  little  boy.  Thomas  Fordyce  has  had  some  experiences, 
I  fancy." 

"And  this  is  what  you  propose  for  Cecilia ? "  exclaimed 
Lady  Eliza. 

"My  dear  friend,  they  would  not  live  together;  Crau- 
ford  will  take  care  of  that." 

"And  Cecilia  too.  She  will  never  marry  him,  Fullarton. 
She  has  told  me  so  already.  I  should  like  to  see  Lady 
Fordyce 's  face  when  she  hears  that  he  has  been  re- 
fused ! "  she  burst  out. 

Fullarton  stared. 

"I  think  your  ladyship  might  have  spared  me  all  this 
trouble,"  he  said,  frowning;  "you  are  making  me  look 
like  a  fool!" 

"  But  I  only  asked  her  to-day,"  replied  she,  her  warmth 
fading,  "not  an  hour  ago — not  five  minutes.  I  had 
meant  to  say  nothing,  and  let  him  be  refused,  but  you 
can  tell  him,  Fullarton — tell  him  it  is  no  use." 

A  peculiar  smile  was  on  his  face. 

"My  dear  Eliza,"  he  said,  "Crauford  is  probably  on 
his  way  here  now.  I  undertook  to  bring  you  the  letter 
and  he  is  to  follow  it.  I  left  him  choosing  a  waistcoat 
to  propose  in." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Lady  Eliza,  too  much  cast  down 
by  his  frown  to  be  amused  at  this  picture. 

"Well,  what  of  it ? "  he  said,  rather  sourly.  "He  must 
learn  his  hard  lessons  like  the  rest  of  the  world ;  there  are 
enough  of  them  and  to  spare  for  everyone." 

"You  are  right,"  she  replied,  "terribly  right." 

He  looked  at  her  critically. 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  143 

"What  can  you  have  to  complain  of?  If  anyone  is 
fortunate,  surely  you  are.  You  are  your  own  mistress, 
you  are  well  enough  off  to  lead  the  life  you  choose,  you 
have  a  charming  companion,  many  friends " 

"Have  I  ?     I  did  not  know  that.     Who  are  they  ? " 

"Well,  if  there  are  few,  it  is  your  own  choice.  Those 
you  possess  are  devoted  to  you.  Look  at  myself,  for 
instance;  have  I  not  been  your  firm  friend  for  years?" 

"You  have  indeed,"  she  said  huskily. 

"There  are  experiences  in  life  which  mercifully  have 
been  spared  you,  Eliza.  These  are  the  things  which 
make  the  real  tragedies,  the  things  which  may  go  on 
before  the  eyes  of  our  neighbours  without  their  seeing 
anything  of  them.  I  would  rather  die  to-morrow  than 
live  my  life  over  again.  You  know  I  speak  truly;  I 
know  that  you  know ;  you  made  me  understand  that  one 
day." 

She  had  turned  away  during  his  speech,  for  she  could 
not  trust  her  face,  but  at  these  last  words  she  looked 
round. 

"I  have  never  forgiven  myself  for  the  pain  I  caused 
you,"  she  said;  "I  have  never  got  over  that.  I  am  so 
rough — I  know  it — have  you  forgiven  me,  Robert?" 

"It  took  me  a  little  time,  but  I  have  done  it,"  replied 
he,  with  an  approving  glance  at  the  generosity  he  saw  in 
his  own  heart. 

"I  behaved  cruelly — cruelly,"  she  said. 

"Forget  it,"  said  Fullarton;  "let  us  only  remember 
what  has  been  pleasant  in  our  companionship.  Do  you 
know,  my  lady,  years  ago  I  was  fool  enough  to  imagine 
myself  in  love  with  you?  You  never  knew  it,  and  I 
soon  saw  my  folly;  mercifully,  before  you  discovered  it. 
We  should  have  been  as  wretched  in  marriage  as  we  have 
been  happy  in  friendship.  We  should  never  have  suited 
each  other." 

"What  brought  you  to  your  senses?"  inquired  Lady 
Eliza  with  a  laugh.  She  was  in  such  agony  of  heart  that 


144  THE  INTERLOPER 

speech  or  silence,  tears  or  laughter,  seemed  all  immaterial, 
all  component  parts  of  one  overwhelming  moment. 

He  looked  as  a  man  looks  who  finds  himself  driven  into 
a  cul-de-sac. 

"It  was — she,"  said  Lady  Eliza.  "Don't  think  I 
blame  you,  Fullarton." 

She  could  say  that  to  him,  but,  as  she  thought  of  the 
woman  in  her  grave,  she  pressed  her  hands  together  till 
the  nails  cut  through  the  skin. 

At  this  moment  Crauford,  in  the  waistcoat  he  had 
selected,  came  through  the  garden  door. 

As  he  stood  before  Lady  Eliza  the  repressed  feeling 
upon  her  face  was  so  strong  that  he  did  not  fail  to  notice 
it,  but  his  observation  was  due  to  the  fact  that  he  saw 
his  mother's  letter  in  Fullarton's  hand ;  that,  of  course, 
was  the  cause  of  her  agitation,  he  told  himself.  But 
where  was  Cecilia  ?  He  looked  round  the  garden. 

His  civil,  shadeless  presence  irritated  Lady  Eliza 
unspeakably  as  he  stood  talking  to  her,  evidently 
deterred  by  his  uncle's  proximity  from  mentioning  the 
subject  uppermost  in  his  mind.  He  possessed  the  fell 
talent  for  silently  emphasising  any  slight  moment  of 
embarrassment.  Robert  watched  him  with  grim  amuse- 
ment, too  indolent  to  move  away.  Fordyce  was  like  a 
picture-book  to  him. 

The  little  group  was  broken  up  by  Cecilia's  return; 
Crauford  went  forward  to  meet  her,  and  pompously 
relieved  her  of  the  two  garden  baskets  she  carried. 
This  act  of  politeness  was  tinged  with  distress  at  the 
sight  of  the  future  Lady  Fordyce  burdened  with  such 
things. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  house,"  exclaimed  Lady  Eliza, 
rising  from  her  bench.  If  something  were  not  done  to 
facilitate  Crauford's  proposal  she  would  never  be  rid  of 
him,  never  at  leisure  to  reason  with  her  aching  heart  in 
solitude.  When  would  the  afternoon  end?  She  even 
longed  for  Fullarton  to  go.  What  he  had  said  to  her 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  145 

was  no  new  thing;  she  had  known  it  all,  all  before.  But 
the  words  had  fallen  like  blows,  and,  like  an  animal  hurt, 
she  longed  to  slink  away  and  hide  her  pain. 

"Put  the  baskets  in  the  tool-house,  Cecilia.  Fullar- 
ton,  come  away;  we  will  go  in." 

The  tool-house  stood  at  the  further  end  of  the  garden, 
outside  the  ivy-covered  wall,  and  Crauford  was  glad  of 
the  chance  given  him  of  accompanying  Cecilia,  though 
he  felt  the  difficulty  of  approaching  affairs  of  the  heart 
with  a  garden  basket  in  either  hand.  He  walked  humbly 
beside  her.  She  put  the  baskets  away  and  turned  the 
key  on  them. 

"May  I  ask  for  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Raeburn?"  he 
began,  "I  have  come  here  for  a  serious  purpose.  My 
uncle  is  the  bearer  of  a  letter  to  her  ladyship.  It  is  from 
my  mother,  and  is  written  in  corroboration  of  one  which 
I  lately  received  from  my  father.  I  had  written  to  ask 
their  approval  of  a  step — a  very  important  step — which 
I  contemplate.  Miss  Raeburn — or  may  I  say  Cecilia  ? — 
it  concerns  yourself." 

"Really,  sir?"  said  Cecilia,  the  cheerfulness  of  despair 
in  her  voice. 

"Yes,  yourself.  No  young  lady  I  have  ever  seen  has 
so  roused  my  admiration — my  affection,  I  may  say.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  on  that  subject.  Do  not  turn 
away,  Miss  Raeburn;  it  is  quite  true,  believe  me.  My 
happiness  is  involved.  To-morrow  I  shall  hope  to  inform 
my  parents  that  you  will  be  my  wife." 

He  stopped  in  the  path  and  would  have  taken  her  hand. 
She  stepped  back. 

"  I  cannot,"  she  said.     "  I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot." 

"You  cannot !"  he  exclaimed.     "Why?" 

"It  is  impossible,  sir,  really." 

"  But  you  have  Lady  Eliza's  permission.  She  told  me 
so  herself.  This  is  absurd,  Miss  Raeburn,  and  you  are 
distressing  me  infinitely." 

"  Please  put  it  out  of  your  head,  Mr.  Fordyce.     I  can- 


i46  THE  INTERLOPER 

not  do  it ;  there  is  no  use  in  thinking  of  it.     I  do  not  want 
to  hurt  you,  but  it  is  quite  impossible — quite." 

"But  why — why?"  he  exclaimed.  He  looked  bewil- 
dered. 

Cecilia's  brows  drew  together  imperceptibly. 

"I  do  not  care  for  you,"  she  said;  "you  force  me  to 
speak  in  this  way.  I  do  not  love  you  in  the  least." 

"But  what  is  there  that  you  object  to  in  me?"  he 
cried.  "Surely  you  understand  that  my  father,  in  con- 
senting, is  ready  to  establish  me  very  well.  I  am  the 
eldest  son,  Miss  Raeburn." 

Cecilia's  pale  face  was  set,  and  her  chin  rose  a  little 
higher  at  each  word. 

"That  is  nothing  to  me,"  she  replied;  "it  does  not 
concern  me.  I  do  not  care  what  your  prospects  are.  I 
thank  you  very  much  for  your — civility,  but  I  refuse." 

He  was  at  a  loss  for  words ;  he  felt  like  a  man  dealing 
with  a  mad  person,  one  to  whom  the  very  rudiments  of 
reason  and  conduct  seemed  to  convey  nothing.  But  the 
flagrant  absurdity  of  her  attitude  .gave  him  hope;  there 
were  some  things  too  monstrous  for  reality. 

"I  will  give  you  time  to  think  it  over,"  he  said  at  last. 

"That  is  quite  useless.     My  answer  is  ready  now." 

"But  what  can  be  your  objection?"  he  broke  out. 
"What  do  you  want,  what  do  you  expect,  that  I  cannot 
give  you?" 

"I  want  a  husband  whom  I  can  love,"  she  replied 
sharply.  "I  have  told  you  that  I  do  not  care  for  you, 
sir.  Let  that  be  the  end." 

"But  love  would  come  after,  Miss  Raeburn;  I  have' 
heard  that  often.  It  always  does  with  a  woman;  you 
would  learn  to  love  me." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her.  Through  her  growing 
exasperation  his  very  fatuity,  as  he  stood  there,  almost 
touched  her.  To  her  mind  he  was  so  unfit  an  object  for 
the  love  he  spoke  of,  parrot-fashion,  so  ignorant  of 
realities.  A  man  cannot  understand  things  for  which 


PLAIN  SPEAKING  147 

he  has  been  denied  the  capacity ;  like  Lady  Eliza,  in  the 
midst  of  her  anger,  she  could  see  the  piteous  side  of  him 
and  be  broad-minded  enough  to  realise  the  pathos  of 
limitation. 

"Don't  think  I  wish  to  hurt  you,"  she  said  gently, 
"but  do  not  allow  yqurself  to  hope  for  anything.  I 
could  never  love  you — not  then  any  more  than  now.  I 
am  honestly  sorry  to  give  you  pain." 

"Then  why  do  you  do  so?"  he  asked  pettishly. 

She  almost  laughed ;  his  attitude  was  invincible. 

"You  will  regret  it  some  day,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  never  will ;  you  will  be  very  happy  one  day 
with  someone  else  who  finds  importance  in  the  same 
things  as  you  do.  I  should  never  suit  you." 

"  Not  suit  me  ?    Why  not  ?   You  do  yourself  injustice." 

"But  it  is  true,  sir." 

"You  are  fitted  for  the  very  highest  position,"  he 
said,  with  solemnity. 

That  night  Cecilia  sat  in  her  room  at  the  open  window. 
Her  dark  hair  fell  in  a  long,  thick  rope  almost  to  the 
ground  as  she  leaned  her  arms  on  the  sill  and  looked  out 
over  the  dew.  High  in  the  sky  the  moon  sailed,  the 
irresponsible  face  on  her  disc  set  above  the  trailing  frag- 
ments of  cloud.  From  fields  near  the  coast  the  low 
whistle  of  plover  talking  came  through  the  silence,  and 
a  night- jar  shrieked  suddenly  from  the  belt  of  trees  near 
the  dovecote.  She  turned  her  face  toward  the  sound, 
and  saw  in  its  shadow  a  piece  of  stonework  glimmering 
in  the  white  light.  To  her  mind's  eye  appeared  the  whole 
wall  in  a  flare  of  torchlight,  and  a  figure  standing  in 
front  of  it,  panting,  straight  and  tense,  with  a  red  stain 
on  brow  and  cheek.  She  had  told  Crauford  Fordyce 
that  she  could  not  marry  him  because  she  did  not  love 
him,  and,  assuredly,  she  had  not  lied.  She  had  spoken 
the  truth,  but  was  it  the  whole  truth  ? 

Out  there,  far  over  the  woods,  lay  Whanland,  with  the 


148  THE  INTERLOPER 

roar  of  the  incoming  sea  sending  its  never-ceasing  voice 
across  the  sandhills,  and  the  roll  of  its  white  foam  crawl- 
ing round  the  skirts  of  the  land.  It  was  as  though  that 
sea-voice,  which  she  could  not  hear,  but  had  known  for 
years,  were  crying  to  her  from  the  distant  coast.  It 
troubled  her;  why,  she  knew  not.  In  all  the  space  of 
night  she  was  so  small,  and  life  was  vast.  She  had 
been  completely  capable  of  dealing  with  her  own  diffi- 
culties during  the  day,  of  choosing  her  path,  of  taking 
or  leaving  what  she  chose.  Now  she  felt  suddenly  weak 
in  spirit.  A  sense  of  misgiving  took  her,  surrounded 
as  she  was  by  the  repose  of  mighty  forces  greater  than 
herself,  greater,  more  eternal,  more  changeless  than 
humanity.  She  laid  her  head  upon  her  arms,  and  rested 
so  till  the  sound  of  midnight  rang  from  the  tongue  of  the 
stable-clock  across  the  sleeping  house.  The  plover  had 
ceased  their  talking. 

She  drew  down  the  blind  and  stretched  herself  among 
the  dim  curtains  of  the  bed,  but,  though  she  closed  her 
eyes,  she  lay  in  a  kind  of  waking  trance  till  morning; 
and  when,  at  last,  she  fell  asleep,  her  consciousness  was 
filled  by  the  monotony  of  rolling  waters  and  the  roar  of 
the  seas  by  Whanland. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

STORM    AND    BROWN    SILK 

AGNETA  and  Mary  Fordyce  were  in  the  drawing-room 
of  Fordyce  Castle,  an  immensely  solemn  apartment  ren- 
dered more  so  by  the  blinds  which  were  drawn  half-mast 
high  in  obedience  to  an  order  from  Lady  Fordyce.  She 
was  economical,  and  the  carpet  was  much  too  expensive 
to  be  looked  upon  by  the  sun.  In  the  semi-darkness 
which  this  induced  the  two  girls  were  busy,  one  with  her 
singing,  which  she  was  practising,  and  the  other  with 
the  tambour-work  she  loved.  Mary,  the  worker,  was 
obliged  to  sit  as  close  as  possible  to  the  window  in  order 
to  get  light  by  which  to  ply  her  needle.  Agneta's  voice 
rose  in  those  desolate  screams  which  are  the  exclusive 
privilege  of  the  singer  practising,  and  for  the  emitting 
of  which  any  other  person  would  justly  be  punished. 
Though  thin,  she  was  very  like  Crauford,  with  the  same 
fresh  colour  and  the  same  large  front  teeth,  now  liber- 
ally displayed  by  her  occupation.  Mary  was  short- 
sighted and  a  little  round-shouldered  from  much  stoop- 
ing over  her  work-frame. 

"I  am  afraid  from  what  mamma  has  heard  that  Lady 
Eliza  Lamont  is  not  a  very  nice  person ;  so  eccentric  and 
unfeminine,  she  said,"  observed  Mary. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Raeburn  is  the  same.  I  am  afraid 
poor  Crauford  is  throwing  himself  away.  A-a-ah-ah !" 
replied  Agneta,  leaping  an  octave  as  though  it  were  a 
fence. 

"  He  has  never  answered  your  letter,  Agneta.  I  really 
wonder  what  she  is  like.  Mamma  only  hopes  she  is 

149 


156  THE  INTERLOPER 

presentable ;  one  can  never  trust  a  young  man's  descrip- 
tion of  the  person  he  is  in  love  with,  she  says." 

"Oh-h-h-oh!  A-a-a-ah !  I  shall  be  very  curious  to 
see  her,  shan't  you,  Mary  ?" 

"  I  suppose  she  will  be  invited  here  soon.  It  would  be 
funny  if  she  were  here  with  Lady  Maria,  would  it  not?" 

"Mamma  says  it  is  all  Uncle  Fullarton's  doing,  because 
he  is  so  much  mixed  up  with  that  dreadful  Lady  Eliza. 
Ah-a-a-a-ah !" 

"I  know;  she  has  always  thought  that  very  undesira- 
ble, she  says.  I  wonder  how  she  has  consented  to  write ; 
I  am  sure  she  would  never  have  done  it  for  anyone  but 
Crauford." 

"  I  wonder  what  it  is  like  to  have  a  sister-in-law?"  said 
Agneta,  pausing  in  her  shrieks. 

"It  would  depend  very  much  what  kind  of  person  she 
is,"  replied  her  sister,  with  some  show  of  sense. 

"Yes,  but  should  we  be  allowed  to  go  anywhere  with 
her?  Perhaps  she  would  take  us  out,"  said  Agneta. 

Lady  Fordyce  was  one  of  those  mothers  who  find  it 
unnecessary  to  take  their  daughters  into  society,  and 
yet  confidently  expect  them  to  marry  well.  Though 
Agneta,  the  youngest,  was  twenty-five,  and  Mary  was 
past  thirty,  Lady  Maria  Milwright  was  the  only  young 
person  who  had  ever  stayed  in  the  house.  A  couple  of 
stiff  parties  were  given  every  year,  and,  when  there  was 
a  county  ball,  the  Misses  Fordyce  were  duly  driven  to  it, 
each  in  a  new  dress  made  for  the  occasion,  to  stand  one 
on  either  side  of  their  mother's  chair  during  the  greater 
part  of  the  evening.  Had  anyone  suggested  to  Lady 
Fordyce  that  Mary  was  an  old  maid  and  that  Agneta 
would  soon  become  one,  she  would  have  been  immoder- 
ately angry.  "When  my  daughters  are  married  I  shall 
give  up  the  world  altogether,"  she  would  sometimes  say; 
and  her  hearer  would  laugh  in  his  sleeeve;  first,  at  the 
thought  of  any  connection  between  Lady  Fordyce  and 
the  world,  and  secondly,  at  the  thought  of  any  connection 


STORM  AND  BROWN  SILK  151 

between  the  Misses  Fordyce  and  matrimony.  Had 
they  been  houris  of  Paradise  their  chances  would  have 
been  small,  and  unfortunately,  they  were  rather  plain. 

"I  should  think  Crauford  will  soon  come  back,"  con- 
tinued Agneta,  as  she  put  away  her  music.  "  I  shall  ask 
him  all  sorts  of  questions." 

To  do  Fordyce  justice,  he  was  a  kind  brother  in  an 
ordinary  way,  and  had  often  stood  between  his  sisters 
and  the  maternal  displeasure  when  times  were  precarious. 
He  did  not  consider  them  of  much  importance,  save  as 
members  of  his  own  family,  but  he  would  throw  them 
small  benefits  now  and  again  with  the  tolerant  indul- 
gence he  might  have  shown  in  throwing  a  morsel  to  a  pet 
animal. 

"He  has  never  said  whether  she  is  pretty,"  observed 
Mary  reflectively.  "He  always  calls  her  'ladylike,' 
and  I  don't  think  mamma  believes  him;  but,  after  all, 
she  may  be,  Agneta." 

"Mamma  says  she  must  have  had  a  deplorable 
bringing -up  with  Lady  Eliza." 

"  If  she  comes  we  must  do  what  we  can  to  polish  her," 
rejoined  Mary,  who  was  inclined  to  take  herself  seriously; 
"no  doubt  there  are  a  lot  of  little  things  we  could  show 
her — how  to  do  her  hair  and  things  like  that.  I  dare 
say  she  is  not  so  bad." 

Agneta  pursed  up  her  lips  and  looked  severe. 

"I  think  it  is  a  great  pity  he  did  not  choose  Lady 
Maria.  Of  course,  she  is  not  at  all  pretty,  but  mamma 
says  it  is  nonsense  to  think  about  such  things.  He  has 
been  very  foolish." 

"I  really  can  hardly  see  this  dull  day,"  sighed  Mary. 
"I  wonder  if  I  might  pull  up  the  blind  ever  so  little. 
You  see,  mamma  has  made  a  pencil-mark  on  all  the 
sashes  to  show  the  housemaids  where  the  end  of  the 
blind  is  to  come,  and  I  am  afraid  to  raise  it." 

"There  is  no  sun,"  observed  her  sister;  "I  think  you 
might  do  it." 


152  THE  INTERLOPER 

Mary  rose  from  her  frame,  but,  as  she  did  so,  a  step 
was  heard  outside  which  sent  her  flying  back  to  her 
place,  and  her  mother  entered. 

Lady  Fordyce  was  a  short,  stout  woman,  whose  nose 
and  forehead  made  one  perpendicular  outline  without 
any  depression  between  the  brows.  Her  eyes  were 
prominent  and  rather  like  marbles ;  in  her  youth  she  had 
been  called  handsome.  She  had  married  late  in  life, 
and  was  now  well  over  sixty,  and  her  neck  had  shortened 
with  advancing  years;  her  very  tight  brown  silk  body 
compressed  a  figure  almost  distressingly  ample  for  her  age. 

She  installed  herself  in  a  chair  and  bade  her  daughter 
continue  practising. 

"  I  have  practised  an  hour  and  my  music  is  put  away," 
said  Agneta.  "We  were  talking  about  Miss  Raeburn. 
Will  she  come  here,  ma'am?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lady  Fordyce ;  "but  whether  you 
will  see  much  of  her  depends  upon  whether  I  consider  her 
desirable  company  for  you." 

"She  may  be  nice  after  all,"  hazarded  Mary. 

"I  trust  that  I  am  a  fit  judge  of  what  a  young  lady 
should  be,"  replied  her  mother.  "As  Lady  Eliza  Lament 
spends  most  of  her  time  in  the  stable,  she  is  hardly  the 
person  to  form  my  daughter-in-law  successfully." 

"She  is  Lady  Eliza's  niece,  ma'am,  is  she  not?" 

"She  is  a  relation — a  poor  relation,  and  no  doubt  gets 
some  sort  of  salary  for  attending  to  her  ladyship.  I 
must  say  a  paid  companion  is  scarcely  the  choice  that  I 
should  have  made  for  Crauford.  What  a  chance  for 
her !" 

"She  is  most  fortunate,"  echoed  Agneta. 

"Fortunate?  A  little  more  than  fortunate,  I  should 
think !  Adventuresses  are  more  often  called  skilful 
than  fortunate.  Poor,  poor  boy !" 

With  this  remark  Lady  Fordyce  opened  an  account- 
book  which  lay  on  her  lap,  and  began  to  look  over  its 
items.  The  girls  were  silent. 


STORM  AND  BROWN  SILK  153 

Mary  stitched  on,  and  Agneta  spread  out  some  music 
she  was  copying  ;t  the  leaden  cloud  which  hung  over 
domestic  life  at  Fordyce  Castle  had  settled  down  upon 
the  morning  when  there  was  a  sound  of  arrival  in  the 
hall  outside.  No  bell  had  rung;  and  the  sisters,  aston- 
ished, suspended  their  respective  employments  and 
opened  their  mouths.  Though  there  were  things  they 
proposed  to  teach  Cecilia,  their  ways  were  not  always 
decorative.  Lady  Fordyce,  who  was  a  little  deaf,  read 
her  account-book  undisturbed,  and,  when  the  door 
opened  to  admit  Crauford,  it  slid  off  her  brown  silk  knee 
like  an  avalanche. 

"I  hardly  expected  you  would  take  my  hint  so 
quickly,"  she  said  graciously,  when  the  necessary  em- 
braces were  over. 

Crauford's  face,  not  usually  complicated  in  expression, 
was  a  curious  study;  solemnity,  regret,  a  sense  of  injury, 
a  sense  of  importance,  struggled  on  it,  and  he  cleared  his 
throat  faintly  now  and  then,  as  some  people  will  when 
they  are  ill  at  ease. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  ma'am,  that  your  trouble  has 
been  useless.  I  have  had  a  great  disappointment — a 
very  great  one:  Miss  Raeburn  has  refused  my  offer." 

He  looked  round  at  his  sisters  as  though  appealing  to 
them  to  expostulate  with  Providence. 

"\7hat?"  cried  his  mother. 

"She  hr.^  refr.sed,"  repeated  Crauford. 

"Refused?  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  it  is  impossible!  7 
refuse — I  refuse  to  believe  it !  Nonsense,  my  dear  Crau- 
ford !  It  is  unheard  of !" 

Mary,  who  had  never  taken  her  eyes  off  her  brother's 
face,  laid  down  her  needle  and  came  forward. 

"Sit  down  !"  thundered  her  mother.  "Sit  down,  and 
go  on  with  your  work  !  Or  you  can  leave  the  room,  you 
and  Agneta.  There  is  nothing  so  detestable  as  curiosity. 
Leave  the  room  this  moment !" 

Dreadfully    disappointed,    they    obeyed.     Though   it 


i54  THE  INTERLOPER 

was  safer  in  the  hall,  the  other  side  of  the  door  was  far 
more  entertaining.  '* 

Crauford  moved  uneasily  about ;  he  certainly  was  not 
to  blame  for  what  had  happened,  but  the  two  lightning- 
conductors  had  gone,  and  the  clouds  looked  black  around 
him.  Also  he  had  no  tact. 

"You  need  not  be  annoyed,  ma'am,"  he  began;  "you 
did  not  approve  of  my  choice." 

"  Happy  as  I  am  to  see  you  deterred  from  such  a  fatal 
step,  I  cannot  submit  to  the  indignity  to  which  you — 
and  we  all — have  been  subjected,"  said  his  mother. 
' '  That  a  paid  companion  should  have  refused  my  son  is 
one  of  those  things  I  find  it  hard  to  accept." 

"She  may  yet  change,"  he  replied.  "I  told  her  I 
should  give  her  time." 

Lady  Fordyce's  prominent  eyes  were  fixed.  "Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  will  ask  her  again  ?  That  you 
will  so  far  degrade  yourself  as  to  make  another  offer?" 

He  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

She  threw  up  her  hands.  "What  have  I  done?"  she 
exclaimed,  addressing  an  imaginary  listener — "what 
have  I  done  that  my  own  children  should  turn  against 
me?  When  have  I  failed  in  my  duty  toward  them? 
Have  I  ever  thought  of  myself  ?  Have  I  ever  failed  to 
sacrifice  myself  where  their  interests  were  concerned?" 

She  turned  suddenly  on  Crauford. 

"No,  never,"  he  murmured. 

During  her  life  Lady  Fordyce  had  seldom  bestirred 
herself  for  anyone, .but  habit  had  made  everybody  in  the 
house  perjure  themselves  at  moments  like  the  present. 
Declamation  was  one  of  her  trump-cards;  besides,  her 
doctor  had  once  hinted  that  apoplexy  was  not  an  impos- 
sible event. 

"As  a  mother,  I  have  surely  some  right  to  considera- 
tion. I  do  not  say  much — I  trust  I  understand  these 
modern  times  too  well  for  that — but  I  beg  you  will  spare 
us  further  mortification.  Are  there  no  young  ladies  of 


STORM  AND  BROWN  SILK  155 

suitable  position  that  you  must  set  your  heart  upon  this 
charity-girl  of  Lady  Eliza  Lament's?" 

"I  don't  understand  why  you  should  be  so  much  set 
against  her,  ma'am;  if  you  only  saw  Miss  Raeburn  you 
would  be  surprised." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  should  !"  exclaimed  his  mother 
in  a  sarcastic  voice;  "indeed,  I  have  no  doubt  that  I 
should!" 

Like  violin  playing,  sarcasm  is  a  thing  which  must  be 
either  masterly  or  deplorable,  but  she  was  one  of  the 
many  from  whom  this  truth  is  hidden. 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing  if  my  sisters  had  one  half 
of  her  looks  or  manners,"  retorted  he,  goaded  by  her 
tone.  "Beside  her,  Agneta  and  Mary  would  look  like 
dairy-maids." 

"Am  I  to  sit  here  and  hear  my  own  daughters  abused 
and  vilified  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Fordyce,  rising  and  walk- 
ing about.  "You  have  indeed  profited  by  your  stay 
among  those  people !  I  hope  you  are  satisfied.  I  hope 
you  have  done  enough  to  pain  me.  I  hope  you  will 
never  live  to  repent  the  way  in  which  you  have  insulted 
me." 

"My  dear  mother,  pray,  be  calmer.  What  am  I  doing 
that  you  should  be  in  this  state?" 

"You  have  called  your  sisters  dairy-maids — servants! 
You  are  throwing  yourself  away  upon  this  worthless 
creature  who  has  been  trying  all  the  time  to  entrap  you." 

"How  can  you  say  such  a  thing,  ma'am,  when  I  tell 
you  that  she  has  refused  me?  Not  that  I  mean  to 
accept  it." 

" Refused  you,  indeed !  I  tell  you  I  do  not  believe  it; 
she  merely  wants  to  draw  you  on.  I  ask  you,  is  it  likely 
that  a  girl  who  has  not  a  penny  in  the  world  would  refuse 
such  prospects?  Pshaw  !"  cried  Lady  Fordyce,  with  all 
the  cheap  sense  of  one  who  knows  nothing  of  the  varieties 
of  human  character. 

"I  wish  you  could  see  her,"  sighed  her  son. 


i56  THE  INTERLOPER 

"If  you  persist  in  your  folly  I  shall  no  doubt  have 
that  felicity  in  time." 

"My  father  has  not  taken  this  view,"  said  Crauford. 
"You  are  very  hard  upon  me,  ma'am." 

"Let  me  remind  you  that  you  have  shown  no  con- 
sideration for  me  throughout  the  whole  matter,"  she 
replied.  "  I,  of  course,  come  last.  I  ask  you  again,  will 
you  be  guided  by  one  who  is  more  fitted  to  judge  than 
you  can  be,  and  put  this  unjustifiable  marriage  out  of 
your  head?" 

She  stood  waiting;  their  eyes  met,  and  he  cast  his 
down. 

"I  must  try  again,"  he  said  with  ineffective  tenacity. 

She  turned  from  him  and  left  the  room,  brown  silk, 
account-book,  and  all. 

He  was  accustomed  to  scenes  like  the  one  he  had  just 
experienced,  but  generally  it  was  someone  else  who 
played  the  part  of  victim,  not  himself.  For  a  week  or 
more  the  world  had  used  him  very  badly;  his  visit  to 
Lady  Eliza  had  been  startling,  his  interview  with  Cecilia 
humiliating,  and  his  reception  by  his  mother  terrific; 
even  his  uncle  had  maintained  an  attitude  toward  him 
that  he  could  not  understand.  His  thoughts  went  back 
to  Barclay,  the  one  person  who  seemed  to  see  him  in  his 
true  colours,  and  he  longed  for  him  as  a  man  who  has 
had  an  accident  longs  for  the  surgeon  to  come  and  bind 
his  wounds.  He  had  left  Fullarton  hurriedly  and  now 
he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done. 

He  was  certainly  not  going  to  accept  Cecilia's  mad 
folly  as  final ;  his  mother  had  rated  him  for  his  want  of 
pride  in  not  abandoning  his  suit,  but,  had  she  under- 
stood him,  she  would  have  known  that  it  was  his  pride 
which  forbade  him  to  relinquish  it,  and  his  vanity  which 
assured  him  that  he  must  be  successful  in  the  end. 
Each  man's  pride  is  a  differently  constructed  article, 
while  each  man  is  certain  that  his  private  possession  is 
the  only  genuine  kind  existing. 


STORM  AND  BROWN  SILK  157 

Lady  Fordyce's  own  pride  had  received  a  rude  blow, 
and  she  looked  upon  her  brother  as  the  director  of  it; 
he  it  was  who  had  thrown  her  son  into  the  society  of  the 
adventuress,  he  it  was  who  had  persuaded  her  to  give 
unwilling  countenance  to  what  she  disapproved.  From 
their  very  infancy  he  had  gone  contrary  to  her.  As  a 
little  boy  he  had  roused  her  impatience  over  every  game 
or  task  that  they  had  shared.  There  had  always  been 
something  in  him  which  she  disliked  and  which  eluded 
her,  and  one  of  her  greatest  grievances  against  him  had 
been  her  own  inability  to  upset  his  temper.  She  was 
anything  but  a  clever  woman,  and  she  knew  that, 
though  his  character  was  weaker  than  her  own,  his  under- 
standing was  stronger.  Brother  and  sister,  never  alike, 
had  grown  more  unlike  with  the  years ;  his  inner  life  had 
bred  a  semi-cynical  and  indolent  toleration  in  him,  and 
her  ceaseless  worldly  prosperity  had  brought  out  the 
arrogance  of  her  nature  and  developed  a  vulgarity  which 
revolted  Robert. 

As  her  brown  silk  dress  rustled  up  the  staircase,  her 
son,  driven  into  an  unwonted  rebellion,  made  up  his 
mind  that,  having  seen  his  father,  he  would  depart  as 
soon  as  he  could  decide  where  to  go.  He  hankered  after 
Kaims.  He  had  written  to  Barclay,  bidding  his  ally 
farewell  and  telling  him  of  Cecilia's  refusal,  and  the  ally 
had  written  a  soothing  reply.  He  praised  his  deter- 
mination to  continue  his  suit,  assured  him  of  his  willing- 
ness to  keep  him  acquainted  with  anything  bearing  on 
his  interests,  and,  finally,  begged  him  to  remember  that, 
at  any  time  or  season,  however  unpropitious,  a  'room  in 
his  house  would  be  at  his  disposal.  Protestations  of  an 
admiring  friendship  closed  the  letter. 

When  the  rustling  was  over,  and  he  heard  his  mother's 
door  close,  he  left  the  drawing-room  with  the  determina- 
tion of  accepting  the  lawyer's  offer;  while  he  had  sense 
enough  to  see  that  there  was  something  undignified  in 
such  a  swift  return  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Morphie,  he 


158  THE  INTERLOPER 

yet  so  longed  for  the  balm  in  Gilead  that  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  brave  the  opinion  of  Fullarton,  should  he  meet 
him.  He  would  only  spend  a  few  quiet  days  in  Kaims 
and  then  betake  himself  in  some  other  direction.  For- 
dyce  Castle  had  grown  intolerable. 

While  he  pondered  these  things,  Agneta,  at  her 
mother's  dictation,  was  writing  to  Lady  Milborough  to 
ask  if  her  daughter  Maria  might  hasten  her  promised 
visit,  and  pay  it  as  soon  as  possible,  instead  of  waiting 
until  the  autumn. 

"The  girls  were  so  impatient,"  said  Lady  Fordyce; 
"and  it  would  be  such  a  kindness  on  Lady  Milborough's 
part  if  she  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  spare  her  dear 
Maria." 

Thus  two  letters  were  dispatched;  one  by  Crauford 
unknown  to  his  mother,  and  one  by  his  mother  unknown 
to  Crauford.  It  chanced  that  the  two  answers  arrived 
each  on  the  same  day. 

Lady  Fordyce's  serenity  was  somewhat  restored  by 
the  one  which  found  its  way  into  her  hands.  Her  cor- 
respondent expressed  herself  much  gratified  by  the 
appreciation  shown  of  her  Maria.  Her  daughter,  under 
the  care  of  an  elderly  maid,  should  start  immediately. 

"We  shall  all  we  pleased  to  welcome  Lady  Maria,  shall 
we  not,  Crauford?"  said  Lady  Fordyce,  as  the  family 
were  gathered  round  the  dinner  table. 

"I  shall  not  be  here,  ma'am,"  replied  her  son,  looking 
up  from  his  veal  pie.  "  I  am  starting  on  a  visit  the  day 
after  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE     THIRD     VOICE 

SPEID  stood  at  the  corner  of  a  field,  in  the  place  from 
which  he  had  looked  up  the  river  with  Barclay  on  the 
day  of  his  arrival.  His  steps  were  now  often  turned  in 
that  direction,  for  the  line  of  the  Morphie  woods  acted 
as  a  magnet  to  his  gaze.  Since  the  day  he  had  spoken 
so  freely  to  Granny  Stirk  he  had  not  once  met  Cecilia, 
and  he  was  weary.  It  was  since  he  had  last  seen  her  that 
he  had  discovered  his  own  heart. 

Away  where  the  Lour  lost  itself  in  the  rich  land,  was 
the  casket  that  held  the  jewel  he  coveted.  He  put  his 
hand  up  to  his  cheek-bone.  He  was  glad  that  he  would 
carry  that  scar  on  it  to  his  death,  for  it  was  an  eternal 
reminder  of  the  night  when  he  had  first  beheld  her  under 
the  branches,  as  they  walked  in  the  torchlight  to  Morphie 
House.  He  had  not  been  able  to  examine  her  face  till 
it  looked  into  his  own  in  the  mirror  as  she  put  the  plaster 
on  his  cheek.  That  was  a  moment  which  he  hail  gone 
over,  again  and  again,  in  his  mind.  It  is  one  of  the 
strangest  things  in  life  that  we  do  not  recognise  its  turn- 
ing points  till  we  have  passed  them. 

The  white  cottage  which  Barclay  had  pointed  out  to 
him  as  the  march  of  his  own  property  was  a  light  spot  in 
the  afternoon  sunshine,  and  the  shadows  were  creeping 
from  under  the  high  wooded  banks  across  the  river's  bed. 
Beyond  it  the  Morphie  water  began.  By  reason  of  the 
wide  curves  made  by  the  road,  the  way  to  Morphie  House 
was  longer  on  the  turnpike  than  by  the  path  at  the 
waterside.  He  crossed  the  fence  arid  went  down  to  the. 


160  THE  INTERLOPER 

Lour,  striking  it  just  above  the  bridge.  To  follow  its 
bank  up  to  those  woods  would  bring  him  nearer  to  her, 
even  if  he  could  not  see  her.  It  was  some  weeks  since 
he  had  been  to  Morphie,  and  he  had  not  arrived  at  such 
terms  with  Lady  Eliza  as  should,  to  his  mind,  warrant 
his  going  there  uninvited.  Many  and  many  times  he 
had  thought  of  writing  to  Cecilia  and  ending  the  strain  of 
suspense  in  which  he  lived,  once  and  for  all;  but  he  had 
lacked  courage,  and  he  was  afraid;  afraid  of  what  his 
own  state  of  mind  would  be  when  he  had  sent  the  letter 
and  was  awaiting  its  answer.  How  could  he  convince 
her  of  all  he  felt  in  a  letter  ?  He  could  not  risk  it. 

He  looked  round  at  the  great,  eight-spanned  bridge 
which  carried  the  road  high  over  his  head,  and  down, 
between  the  arches,  to  the  ribbon  of  water  winding  out 
to  sea;  to  the  cliffs  above  that  grave  lying  in  the  corner 
of  the  kirkyard-wall ;  to  the  beeches  of  Whanland 
covering  the  bank  a  hundred  yards  from  where  he  stood. 
He  had  come  to  love  them  all.  All  that  had  seemed 
uncouth,  uncongenial  to  him,  had  fallen  into  its  place, 
and  an  affinity  with  the  woods  and  the  wide  fields,  with 
the  grey  sea-line  and  the  sand-hills,  had  entered  into 
him.  He  had  thought  to  miss  the  glory  of  the  South 
when  he  left  Spain,  months  s,go,  but  now  he  cared  no 
more  for  Spain.  This  misty  angle  of  the  East  Coast, 
conveying  nothing  to  the  casual  eye  in  search  of  more 
obvious  beauty,  had  laid  its  iron  hand  on  him,  as  it  will 
lay  it  on  all  sojourners,  and  blinded  him  to  everything 
but  its  enduring  and  melancholy  charm.  There  are 
many,  since  Gilbert's  day,  who  have  come  to  the  country 
in  which  he  lived  and  loved  and  wandered,  driven  by 
some  outside  circumstance  and  bewailing  their  heavy 
fate,  who  have  asked  nothing  better  than  to  die  in  it. 
And  now,  for  him,  from  this  mist  of  association,  from 
this  atmosphere  of  spirit-haunted  land  and  sea,  had 
risen  the  star  of  life. 

He  crossed  the  march  of  Whanland  by  green  places 


THE  THIRD  VOICE  161 

where  cattle  stood  flicking  the  flies,  and  went  onwards, 
admiring  the  swaying  heads  of  mauve  scabious  and  the 
tall,  cream-pink  valerian  that  brushed  him  as  he  passed. 
He  did  not  so  much  as  know  their  names,  but  he  knew 
that  the  world  grew  more  beautiful  with  each  step  that 
brought  him  nearer  to  Morphie. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  decline  as  he  stood  half  a 
•mile  below  the  house,  and  the  woods  were  dark  above 
his  head.  A  few  moss-covered  boulders  lay  in  the  path 
and  the  alders  which  grew,  with  their  roots  almost  in 
the  water,  seemed  to  have  stepped  ashore  to  form  a 
thicket  through  which  his  way  ran.  The  twigs  touched 
his  face  as  he  pushed  through  them. 

On  the  further  side  stood  Cecilia,  a  few  paces  in  front  of 
him,  at  the  edge  of  the  river.  She  had  heard  the  foot- 
steps, and  was  looking  straight  at  him  as  he  emerged. 
At  the  sight  of  her  face  he  knew,  as  surely  as  if  he  had 
been  told  it,  that  she  was  thinking  of  him. 

They  stood  side  by  side  in  a  pregnant  silence  through 
which  that  third  voice,  present  with  every  pair  of  lovers 
who  meet  alone,  cried  aloud  to  both. 

"I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here,  sir,"  she  began. 

("He  has  come  because  he  cannot  keep  away;  he  has 
come  because  the  very  sight  of  the  trees  that  surround 
your  home  have  a  glamour  for  him ;  because  there  is  no 
peace  any  more  for  him,  day  nor  night,"  said  the  voice 
to  her.) 

("She  has  come  here  to  think  of  you,  to  calm  her 
heart,  to  tell  herself  that  you  are  not,  and  never  can  be, 
anything  to  her,  and  then  to  contradict  her  own  words," 
it  cried  to  him.) 

He  could  not  reply ;  the  third  voice  was  too  loud. 

"Let  us  go  on  a  little  way,"  said  Cecilia. 

Her  lips  would  scarcely  move,  and  the  voice  and  the 
beating  of  her  heart  was  stopping  her  breath. 

Gilbert  turned,  and  they  went  through  the  alders,  he 
holding  back  the  twigs  for  her  to  pass. 


162  THE  INTERLOPER 

("He  loves  you!  he  loves  you!  he  loves  you!"  cried 
the  voice.) 

As  she  brushed  past  him  through  the  narrow  way  her 
nearness  seemed  to  make  the  scar  on  his  face  throb,  and 
bring  again  the  thrill  of  her  fingers  upon  his  cheek.  He 
could  bear  it  no  more.  They  were  at  the  end  of  the 
thicket,  and,  as  she  stepped  out  of  it  in  front  of  him,  he 
sprang  after  her,  catching  her  in  his  arms. 

"Cecilia ! "  he  said,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

He  had  grown  white. 

She  drew  herself  away  with  an  impulse  which  her 
womanhood  made  natural.  He  followed  her  fiercely, 
on  his  face  the  set  look  of  a  man  in  a  trance. 

There  are  some  things  in  a  woman  stronger  than 
training,  stronger  than  anything  that  may  have  hedged 
her  in  from  her  birth,  and  they  await  but  the  striking  of 
an  hour  and  the  touch  of  one  man.  As  he  stretched  out 
his  arms  anew  she  turned  towards  him  and  threw  herself 
into  them.  Their  lips  met,  again — again.  He  held 
her  close  in  silence. 

"Ah,  I  am  happy,"  she  exclaimed  at  last. 

"And  I  have  been  afraid  to  tell  you,  torturing 
mySelf  to  think  that  you  would  repulse  me.  Cecilia, 
you  understand  what  you  q,re  saying — you  will  never 
repent  this?" 

"Never,"  she  said.     "I  shall  love  you  all  my  life." 

He  touched  the  dark  hair  that  rested  against  his 
shoulder. 

"I  am  not  worthy  of  it,"  he  said.  "My  only  claim  to 
you  is  that  I  adore  you.  I  cannot  think  why  the  whole 
world  is  not  in  love  with  you." 

She  laughed  softly. 

"I  have  been  half  mad,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  am  cured 
now.  I  can  do  nothing  by  halves,  Cecilia." 

"  I  hope  you  may  never  love  me  by  halves." 

"Say  Gilbert." 

"Gilbert." 


THE  THIRD  VOICE  163 

"  How  perfect  it  sounds  on  your  lips  !  I  never  thought 
of  admiring  my  name  before." 

"Gilbert  Speid,"  repeated  she.     "It  is  beautiful." 

"Cecilia  Speid  is  better,"  he  whispered. 

She  disengaged  herself  gently,  and  stood  looking  over 
the  water.  The  shadow  lay  across  it  and  halfway  up 
the  opposite  bank.  He  watched  her. 

"I  have  lived  more  than  thirty  years  without  you," 
he  said.  "  I  cannot  wait  long." 

She  made  no  reply. 

"We  must  speak  to  my  aunt,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
"We  cannot  tell  what  she  may  think.  At  least,  I  shall 
not  be  going  far  from  her." 

"I  cannot  offer  you  what  many  others  might,"  said 
he,  coming  closer.  "I  am  not  a  rich  man.  But,  thank 
God,  I  can  give  you  everything  you  have  had  at  Morphie. 
Nothing  is  good  enough  for  you,  Cecilia;  but  you  shall 
come  first  in  everything.  You  know  that." 

"If  you  were  a  beggar,  I  would  marry  you,"  she  said. 

Honesty,  in  those  days,  was  not  supposed  to  be  a 
lady's  accomplishment,  but,  to  Cecilia,  this  moment,  the 
most  sacred  she  had  ever  known,  was  not  one  for  con- 
cealment of  what  lay  in  the  very  depths  of  truth.  She 
had  been  unconscious  of  it  at  the  time,  but  she  now 
knew  that  that  first  moment  at  the  dovecote  had  sealed 
the  fate  of  her  heart.  Looking  back,  she  wondered  why 
she  had  not  understood. 

"May  God  punish  me  if  I  do  not  make  you  happy," 
said  Gilbert,  his  eyes  set  upon  her.  "A  woman  is 
beyond  my  understanding.  How  can  you  risk  so  much 
for  a  man  like  me  ?  How  can  you  know  that  you  are  not 
spoiling  your  life?" 

"I  think  I  have  always  known,"  said  she. 

He  stood,  neither  speaking  nor  approaching  her. 
The  miracle  of  her  love  was  too  great  for  him  to  grasp. 
In  spite  of  the  gallant  personality  he  carried  through 
life,  in  spite  of  the  glory  of  his  youth  and  strength,  he 


1 64  THE  INTERLOPER 

was  humble-hearted,  and,  before  this  woman,  he  felt 
himself  less  than  the  dust.  In  the  old  life  in  Spain 
which  had  slipped  from  him  he  had  been  the  prominent 
figure  of  the  circle  in  which  he  lived.  His  men  friends 
had  admired  and  envied  him,  and,  to  the  younger  ones, 
Gilbert  Speid,  who  kept  so  much  to  himself,  who  looked 
so  quiet  and  could  do  so  many  things  better  than  they, 
was  a  model  which  they  were  inclined  to  copy.  To 
women,  the  paradox  of  his  personal  attraction  and 
irregular  face,  and  the  fact  that  he  only  occasionally 
cared  to  profit  by  his  own  advantages,  made  him  consis- 
tently interesting.  He  had  left  all  that  and  come  to  a 
world  which  took  little  heed  of  him,  to  find  in  it  this 
peerless  thing  of  snow  and  flame,  of  truth  and  full 
womanhood,  and  she  was  giving  her  life  and  herself 
into  his  hand.  He  was  shaken  through  and  through 
by  the  charm  of  her  eyes,  her  hands,  her  hair,  her  slim 
whiteness,  the  movements  of  her  figure,  the  detachment 
which  made  approach  so  intoxicating.  He  could  have 
knelt  down  on  the  river-bank. 

The  sun  had  gone  from  the  sky  when  the  two  parted 
and  Cecilia  went  up  through  the  trees  to  Morphie.  He 
left  her  at  the  edge  of  the  woods,  standing  to  watch  her 
out  of  sight.  Above  his  head  the  heavens  were  trans- 
figured by  the  evening,  and  two  golden  wings  were 
spread  like  a  fan  across  the  west.  The  heart  in  his 
breast  was  transfigured  too.  As  he  neared  Whanland 
and  looked  at  the  white  walls  of  the  palace  that  was 
to  contain  his  queen,  the  significance  of  what  had  hap- 
pened struck  him  afresh.  She  would  be  there,  in  these 
rooms,  going  in  and  out  of  these  doors;  her  voice  and 
her  step  would  be  on  the  stair,  in  the  hall.  He  entered 
in  and  sat  down,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  face  hidden 
in  his  hands,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

When  the  lights  were  lit,  and  Macquean's  interminable 
comings-in  and  goings-out  on  various  pretexts  were  over, 
he  gave  himself  up  to  his  dreams  of  the  coming  time. 


THE  THIRD  VOICE  165 

In  his  mind  he  turned  the  house  upside  down.  She 
liked  windows  that  looked  westward;  he  would  go  out 
of  his  own  room,  which  faced  that  point,  and  make  it 
into  a  boudoir  for  her.  She  liked  jessamine,  and 
jessamine  should  clothe  every  gate  and  wall.  She  had 
once  admired  some  French  tapestry,  and  he  would  ruin 
himself  in  tapestry.  She  should  have  everything 
that  her  heart  or  taste  could  desire. 

He  would  buy  her  a  horse  the  like  of  which  had  never 
been  seen  in  the  country,  and  he  would  go  to  England  to 
choose  him;  to  London,  to  the  large  provincial  sales  and 
fairs,  until  he  should  come  upon  the  animal  he  had  in 
his  mind.  He  must  have  a  mouth  like  velvet,  matchless 
manners  and  paces,  the  temper  of  an  angel,  perfect 
beauty.  He  thought  of  a  liver-chestnut,  mottled  on 
the  flank,  with  burnished  gold  hidden  in  the  shades  of 
his  coat.  But  that  would  not  do.  Chestnuts,  children 
of  the  sun,  were  hot,  and  he  shivered  at  the  bare  idea 
of  risking  her  precious  body  on  the  back  of  some  creature 
all  nerves  and  sudden  terrors  and  caprices.  He  would 
not  have  a  chestnut.  He  lost  himself  in  contemplation 
of  a  review  of  imaginary  horses. 

She  must  have  jewels,  too.  He  had  passed  them  over 
in  his  dreams,  and  he  remembered,  with  vivid  pleasure, 
that  he  need  not  wait  to  gratify  his  eyes  with  the  sight 
of  something  fit  to  offer  her.  In  a  room  near  the  cellar 
was  a  strong  box  which  Barclay  had  delivered  to  him  on 
his  arrival,  and  which  had  lain  at  Mr.  Speid's  bankers 
all  the  years  of  his  life  in  Spain.  He  had  never  opened 
it,  although  he  kept  the  key  in  the  desk  at  his  elbow, 
but  he  knew  that  it  contained  jewels  which  had  belonged 
to  his  mother.  He  sprang  up  and  rang  for  a  light; 
then,  with  the  key  in  his  hand,  he  went  down  to  the 
basement,  carried  up  the  box,  and  set  it  on  the  table 
before  him. 

He  found  that  it  was  made  in  two  divisions,  the  upper 
being  a  shelf  in  which  all  kinds  of  small  things  and  a  few 


166  THE  INTERLOPER 

rings  were  lying;  the  lower  part  was  full  of  cases,  some 
wooden  and  some  made  of  faded  leather.  He  opened 
the  largest  and  discovered  a  necklace,  each  link  of  which 
was  a  pink  topaz  set  in  diamonds.  The  stones  were 
clear  set,  for  the  artificer  had  not  foiled  them  at  the 
back,  as  so  many  of  his  trade  were  apt  to  do,  and  the 
light  flowed  through  them  like  sunlight  through  roses. 
Gilbert  was  pleased,  and  laid  it  again  in  its  leather  case 
feeling  that  this,  his  first  discovery,  was  fit  even  for 
Cecilia. 

The  next  thing  that  he  opened  was  a  polished  oval 
wooden  box,  tied  round  and  round  with  a  piece  of  em- 
broidery silk,  and  having  a  painted  wreath  of  laurel- 
leaves  encircling  the  "C.  L."  on  the  top  of  the  lid.  It 
was  a  pretty,  dainty  little  object,  preeminently  a 
woman's  intimate  property;  a  little  thing  which  might 
lie  on  a  dressing-table  among  laces  and  fans,  or  be  found 
tossed  into  the  recesses  of  some  frivolous,  scented 
cushion  close  to  its  owner.  It  did  not  look  as  though 
made  to  hold  jewels.  Inside  lay  the  finest  and  thinnest 
of  gold  chains,  long  enough  to  go  round  a  slender  throat, 
and  made  with  no  clasp  nor  fastening.  It  was  evidently 
intended  to  be  crossed  over  and  knotted  in  front,  with 
the  ends  left  hanging  down,  for  each  terminated  in  a 
pear-shaped  stone — one  an  ^  emerald  set  in  diamonds, 
and  one  a  diamond  set  in  emeralds.  The  exquisite  thing 
charmed  him,  and  he  sat  looking  at  it,  and  turning  it 
this  way  and  that  to  catch  the  light.  He  loved  emeralds, 
because  they  reminded  him  of  the  little  brooch  he  had 
often  seen  on  Cecilia's  bosom.  It  should  be  his  first 
gift  to  her. 

He  next  came  upon  the  shagreen  case  containing  the 
pearl  necklace  which  Mr.  Speid  had  carried  with  him 
when  he  went  to  fetch  his  bride,  and  which  had  adorned 
his  mother's  neck  as  she  drove  up  in  the  family  chariot  to 
Whanland.  He  did  not  know  its  history,  but  he  ad- 
mired the  pearls  and  their  perfect  uniformity  and  shape, 


THE  THIRD  VOICE  167 

and  he  pictured  Cecilia  wearing  them.  He  would  have 
her  painted  in  them. 

Instinctively  he  glanced  up  to  the  wall  where  Clemen- 
tina Speid's  portrait  hung.  By  his  orders  it  had  been 
taken  from  the  garret,  cleaned,  and  brought  down  to  the 
room  in  which  he  generally  sat.  She  had  always 
fascinated  him,  and  the  discovery  of  her  brilliant, 
wayward  face  hidden  in  the  dust,  put  away  like  a  for- 
gotten thing  in  gloom  and  oblivion,  had  produced  an 
unfading  impression  on  his  mind.  What  a  contrast 
between  her  smiling  lips,  her  dancing  eyes,  her  mass  of 
curling  chestnut  hair,  and  the  forlorn  isolation  of  her 
grave  on  the  shore  with  the  remorseless  inscription 
chosen  for  it  by  the  man  he  remembered !  Those 
words  were  not  meant  to  apply  to  her,  but  to  him  who 
had  laid  her  there.  Gilbert  had  no  right  to  think 
of  her  as  aught  but  an  evil  thing,  but,  for  all  that, 
he  could  not  judge  her.  Surely,  surely,  she  had 
been  judged. 

And  this  was  her  little  box,  her  own  private,  intimate 
little  toy,  for  a  toy  it  was,  with  its  tiny,  finely  finished 
wreath  of  laurel,  and  its  interlaced  gilt  monogram  in  the 
centre.  He  took  the  candle  and  went  up  close  to  the 
wall  to  look  at  her.  The  rings  he  had  found  in  the 
jewel-box  were  so  small  that  he  wondered  if  the  painted 
fingers  corresponded  to  their  size.  The  picture  hung 
rather  high,  and  though  he  was  tall,  he  could  not  clearly 
see  the  hands,  which  were  in  shadow.  He  brought  a 
chair  and  stood  upon  it,  holding  the  light.  The  portrait 
had  been  cleaned  and  put  up  while  he  was  absent  for 
a  few  days  from  Whanland,  and  he  had  not  examined  it 
closely  since  that  time.  Yes,  the  fingers  were  very 
slender,  and  they  were  clasped  round  a  small,  dark 
object.  He  pulled  out  his  silk  handkerchief  and  rubbed 
the  canvas  carefully.  What  she  held  was  the  laurel- 
wreathed  box. 

He  took  it  up  from  the  table  again  with  an  added 


168  THE  INTERLOPER 

interest,  for  he  had  made  sure  that  she  prized  it,  and  it 
pleased  him  to  find  he  was  right.  On  the  great  day  on 
which  he  should  bring  Cecilia  to  Whanland  he  would 
show  her  what  he  had  discovered. 

He  replaced  all  the  other  cases  and  boxes,  locking 
them  up,  but  the  painted  one  with  the  emerald  and 
diamond  drops  inside  it  he  put  into  a  drawer  of 
his  desk — he  would  need  it  so  soon.  As  he  laid 
it  away  there  flashed  across  him  the  question  of 
whether  Cecilia  knew  his  history.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  before.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  his  writing-table,  looking  into  space.  In  his 
intoxication  he  had  not  remembered  that  little  cloud  in 
the  background  of  his  life. 

That  it  would  make  any  difference  to  Cecilia's  feelings 
for  him  he  did  not  insult  her  by  supposing,  but  how 
would  it  affect  Lady  Eliza?  Like  a  breath  of  poison 
came  the  thought  that  it  might  influence  her  approval 
of  the  marriage.  He  needed  but  to  look  back  to  be 
certain  that  the  shadow  over  his  birth  was  a  dark  one. 
Whether  the  outer  world  were  aware  of  it  he  did  not 
know. 

Any  knowledge  which  had  reached  the  ears  of  the 
neighbourhood  could  only  have  been  carried  by  the 
gossip  of  servants,  and  officially,  there  was  no  stain 
resting  upon  him.  He  had  been  acknowledged  as  a  son 
by  the  man  whom  he  had  called  father,  he  had  inherited 
his  property,  he  had  been  received  in  the  county  as  the 
representative  of  the  family  whose  name  he  bore. 
Lady  Eliza  herself  had  accepted  him  under  it,  and 
invited  him  to  her  house.  For  all  he  knew,  she  might 
never  have  heard  anything  about  the  matter.  But, 
whether  she  had  or  whether  she  had  not,  it  was  his  plain 
duty,  as  an  honourable  man,  to  put  the  case  before  her, 
and  when  he  went  to  Morphie  to  ask  formally  for 
Cecilia  he  would  do  it. 

But  he  could  not  believe  that  it  would  really  go  against 


THE  THIRD  VOICE  169 

him.  From  Lady  Eliza's  point  of  view,  there  was  so 
much  in  his  favour.  She  need  scarcely  part  with  the 
girl  who  was  to  her  as  her  own  child.  Besides  which, 
the  idea  was  too  hideous. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BETWEEN    LADY    ELIZA    AND    CECILIA 

LADY  ELIZA  LAMONT  was  like  a  person  who  has  walked 
in  the  dark  and  been  struck  to  the  ground  by  some 
familiar  object,  the  existence  and  position  of  which  he 
has  been  foolish  enough  to  forget.  Straight  from  her 
lover,  Cecilia  had  sought  her,  and  put  what  had  happened 
plainly  before  her;  she  did  not  know  what  view  her 
aunt  might  take,  but  she  was  not  prepared  for  the  effect 
of  her  news.  She  sat  calm  under  the  torrent  of  ex- 
cited words,  her  happiness  dying  within  her,  watching 
with  miserable  eyes  the  changes  of  her  companion's 
face.  Lady  Eliza  was  shaken  to  the  depths;  she  had 
not  forseen  the  contingency  which  might  take  her 
nearest  and  dearest,  and  set  her  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
enemy's  camp. 

Though  she  forced  herself  to  be  civil  to  Gilbert  Speid, 
and  felt  no  actual  enmity  towards  him,  everything  to  do 
with  him  was  hateful  to  her.  Cecilia,  whom  she  loved 
as  a  daughter,  and  to  whom  she  clung  more  closely  with 
each  passing  year,  would  be  cut  off  from  her,  not  in  love 
nor  in  gratitude,  as  she  knew  well  enough,  but  by  the 
barrier  of  such  surroundings  as  she,  Lady  Eliza,  could 
never  induce  herself  to  penetrate.  That  house  from 
which,  as  she  passed  its  gates,  she  was  wont  to  avert  her 
face,  would  be  Cecilia's  home.  For  some  time  she  had 
been  schooling  herself  to  the  idea  of  their  parting. 
When  Crauford's  laborious  courtship  had  ended  in 
failure,  she  had  been  glad;  but,  in  comparison  to  this 
new  suitor,  she  would  have  welcomed  him  with  open 

170 


BETWEEN   LADY  ELIZA  AND   CECILIA  171 

arms.  He  had  a  blameless  character,  an  even  temper, 
excellent  prospects,  and  no  distance  to  .which  he  could 
have  transported  Cecilia  would  divide  them  so  surely  as 
the  few  miles  which  separated  Morphie  from  Whanland. 
She  would  hear  her  called  "Mrs.  Speid";  she  would 
probably  see  her  the  mother  of  children  in  whose  veins 
ran  the  blood  of  the  woman  she  abhorred.  The  tempest 
of  her  feelings  stifled  all  justice  and  all  reason. 

"Why  did  you  not  take  Crauford  Fordyce,  if  your 
heart  was  set  on  leaving  me?"  she  cried. 

The  thrust  pierced  Cecilia  like  a  knife,  but  she 
knew  that  it  was  not  the  real  Lady  Eliza  who  had 
dealt  it. 

"I  did  not  care  for  him,"  she  replied,  "and  I  love 
Gilbert  Speid." 

"He  is  not  Gilbert  Speid !"  burst  out  her  companion; 
"he  is  no  more  Speid  than  you  are !  He  is  nothing  of 
the  sort ;  he  is  an  impostor — a  man  of  no  name ! " 

"An  impostor,  ma'am?" 

"His  mother  was  a  bad  woman.  I  would  rather  see 
you  dead  than  married  to  him !  If  you  wanted  to 
break  my  heart,  Cecilia,  you  could  not  have  taken  a 
better  way  of  doing  it." 

"Do  you  mean  that  he  is  not  Mr.  Speid's  son?"  said 
Cecilia,  her  face  the  colour  of  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"Yes,  I  do.  He  has  no  business  in  that  house;  he  has 
no  right  to  be  here;  his  whole  position  is  a  shameful 
pretence  and  a  lie." 

"But  Whanland  is  his.  He  has  every  right  to  be 
there,  ma'am." 

"Mr.  Speid  must  have  been  mad  to  leave  it  to  him. 
You  would  not  care  to  be  the  wife  of  an  interloper ! 
That  is  what  he  is." 

"All  that  can  change  nothing,"  said  Cecilia,  after  a 
moment.  "The  man  is  the  same;  he  has  done  no 
wrong." 

"  His  very  existence  is  a  wrong,"  cried  Lady  Eliza,  her 


172  THE  INTERLOPER 

hand  shutting  tightly  on  the  gloves  she  held;  "it  is  a 
wrong  done  by  an  infamous  woman  ! " 

"I  love  him,"  said  Cecilia:  "nothing  can  alter  that. 
You  received  him,  and  you  told  me  nothing,  and  the 
thing  is  done — not  that  I  would  undo  it  if  I  could. 
How  could  I  know  that  you  would  be  so  much  against 
it?" 

"I  had  rather  anything  in  the  world  than  this!" 
exclaimed  the  other — "anyone  but  this  man!  What 
has  driven  you  to  make  such  a  choice?" 

"Does  it  seem  so  hard  to  understand  why  anyone 
should  love  Gilbert  Speid?" 

"It  is  a  calamity  that  you  should;  think  of  it  again — 
to  please  me — to  make  me  happy.  I  can  scarcely  bear 
the  thought,  child;  you  do  not  know  the  whole  of  this 
miserable  business." 

"And  I  hoped  that  you  would  be  so  pleased  !" 

The  tears  were  starting  to  Cecilia's  eyes;  her  nerves, 
strained  to  the  utmost  by  the  emotions  of  the  day,  were 
beginning  to  give  way. 

"Whanland  is  so  near,"  she  said;  "we  should  scarcely 
have  to  part,  dear  aunt." 

She  was  longing  to  know  more,  to  ask  for  complete 
enlightenment,  but  her  pride  struggled  hard,  and  she 
shrank  from  the  mere  sembiance  of  misgiving  about 
Gilbert.  She  had  none  in  her  heart. 

"  Is  this  that  you  have  told  me  generally  known  ? "  she 
said  at  last. 

"No  one  knows  as  much  as  I  do,"  answered  the  elder 
woman,  turning  her  head  away. 

"Does  Mr.  Fullarton  know?"  asked  Cecilia. 

Lady  Eliza  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  when  she 
did  her  head  was  still  turned  from  the  girl. 

"I  know  his  real  history — his  whole  history,"  she 
replied  in  a  thick  voice;  "other  people  may  guess  at  it, 
but  they  know  nothing." 

"You  will  not  tell  me  more?" 


BETWEEN   LADY  ELIZA  AND   CECILIA  173 

"I  cannot !"  cried  Lady  Eliza,  getting  up  and  turning 
upon  her  almost  fiercely;  "there  is  no  more  to  be  said. 
If  you  want  to  marry  him,  I  suppose  you  will  marry 
him ;  I  cannot  stop  you.  What  is  it  to  you  if  my  heart 
breaks?  What  is  it  to  you  if  all  my  love  for  you  is 
forgotten?" 

"Aunt!  Dear,  dear  aunt!"  cried  Cecilia,  "you  have 
never  spoken  to  me  like  this  in  all  your  life  !" 

She  threw  her  arms  round  Lady  Eliza,  holding  her 
tightly.  For  some  time  they  stood  clinging  to  each  other 
without  speaking,  and  the  tears  in  Cecilia's  eyes  dropped 
and  fell  upon  the  shoulder  that  leaned  against  her;  now 
and  then  she  stroked  it  softly  with  her  fingers. 

They  started  apart  as  a  servant  entered,  and  Lady 
Eliza  went  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house,  dis- 
appearing among  the  trees.  Though  her  heart  was 
smiting  her  for  her  harshness,  a  power  like  the  force  of 
instinct  in  an  animal  fought  against  the  idea  of  connecting 
all  she  loved  with  Whanland.  She  had  called  Gilbert 
an  interloper,  and  an  interloper  he  was,  come  to  poison 
the  last  days  of  her  life.  She  hurried  on  among  the 
trees,  impervious  to  the  balm  of  the  evening  air  which 
played  on  her  brow;  tenderness  and  fierceness  dragged 
her  in  two  directions,  and  the  consciousness  of  having 
raised  a  barrier  between  herself  and  Cecilia  was  grievous. 
She  seemed  to  be  warring  against  everything.  Of  what 
use  was  it  to  her  to  have  been  given  such  powers  of  love 
and  sympathy?  They  had  recoiled  upon  her  all  her 
life,  as  curses  are  said  to  recoil,  and  merely  increased 
the  power  to  suffer. 

She  had  come  to  the  outskirts  of  the  trees,  and,  from 
the  place  in  which  she  stood,  she  could  see  over  the  wall 
into  the  road.  The  sound  of  a  horse's  trotting  feet  was 
approaching  from  the  direction  of  Kaims,  and  she 
remembered  that  it  was  Friday,  the  day  on  which  the 
weekly  market  was  held,  and  on  which  those  of  the 
county  men  who  were  agriculturally  inclined  made  a 


174  THE  INTERLOPER 

point  of  meeting  in  the  town  for  business  purposes. 
The  rider  was  probably  Fullarton.  He  often  stopped 
at  Morphie  on  his  way  home,  and  it  was  likely  he  would 
do  so  now.  She  went  quickly  down  to  a  gate  in  the 
wall  to  intercept  him. 

Yes,  it  was  Robert  trotting  evenly  homewards,  a  fine 
figure  of  a  man  on  his  sixteen-hand  black.  For  one 
moment  she  started  as  he  came  into  sight  round  the  bend, 
for  she  took  him  for  Speid.  The  faces  of  the  two  men 
were  not  alike,  but,  for  the  first  time,  and  for  an  instant 
only,  the  two  figures  seemed  to  her  almost  identical. 
As  he  neared  her  the  likeness  faded;  Fullarton  was  the 
taller  of  the  two,  and  he  had  lost  the  distinctive  lines  of 
youth.  She  went  out  and  stood  on  the  road;  he  pulled 
up  as  he  saw  her,  and  dismounted,  and  they  walked  on 
side  by  side  towards  the  large  gate  of  Morphie. 

"Crauford  has  come  back,"  he  began,  "and  I  have 
just  seen  him  in  Kaims.  He  is  staying  with  Barclay; 
they  seemed  rather  friendly  when  he  was  with  me,  but 
I  am  surprised.  Why  he  should  have  come  back  I 
can't  think,  for  Cecilia  gave  him  no  doubt  of  her  want 
of  appreciation  of  him.  In  any  case,  it  is  too  soon. 
You  don't  like  Barclay,  I  know,  my  lady." 

"I  can't  bear  him,"  said  Lady  Eliza. 

"I  have  tolerated  him  for  years,  so  I  suppose  I  shall  go 
on  doing  so.  Sometimes  it  is  as  much  trouble  to  lay 
down  one's  load  as  to  go  on  with  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could  think  as  you  do,"  said  she. 

"Not  that  Barclay  is  exactly  a  load,"  he  continued, 
pursuing  his  own  train  of  thought,  "but  he  is  a  common, 
pushing  fellow,  and  I  think  it  a  pity  that  Crauford 
should  stay  with  him." 

Lady  Eliza  walked  on  in  silence,  longing  to  unburden 
her  mind  to  her  companion,  and  shrinking  from  the 
mention  of  Gilbert's  name.  He  thought  her  dull 
company,  and  perhaps  a  little  out  of  temper,  and  he  was 
not  inclined  to  go  up  to  the  house.  She  stood,  as  he 


BETWEEN   LADY  ELIZA  AND   CECILIA  175 

prepared  to  remount  his  horse,  laying  an  ungloved  hand 
upon  the  shining  neck  of  the  black;  his  allusion  to  its 
beauty  had  made  her  doubly  and  trebly  careful  of  it. 
Had  he  noticed  her  act,  with  its  little  bit  of  feminine 
vanity,  he  might  have  thought  it  ridiculous;  but  it  was 
so  natural — a  little  green  sprig  from  stunted  nature 
which  had  flowered  out  of  season. 

"Fullarton,  Gilbert  Speid  has  proposed  to  Cecilia," 
she  said. 

"And  do  you  expect  me  to  be  astonished?"  he  in- 
quired, pausing  with  his  foot  in  the  stirrup-iron. 

"It  came  like  a  thunder-clap;  I  never  thought  of  it !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"Pshaw,  Eliza!  Why,  I  told  Crauford  long  ago  that 
he  had  a  pretty  formidable  rival  in  him,"  said  he,  from 
the  saddle. 

"She  wants  to  marry  him,"  said  Lady  Eliza,  looking 
up  at  him,  and  restraining  the  quivering  of  her  lips  with 
an  effort. 

"Well,  if  she  won't  take  Crauford,  she  had  better  take 
him;  he'll  be  the  more  interesting  husband  of  the  two. 
Good-night,  my  lady." 

She  went  back  to  the  house,  her  heart  like  lead,  her 
excitement  calmed  into  dull  misery.  Fullarton  did  not 
understand,  and,  while  she  was  thankful  that  he  did  not, 
the  fact  hurt  her  in  an  unreasonable  way. 

The  evening  was  a  very  quiet  one,  for,  as  neither  of 
the  two  women  could  speak  of  what  she  felt,  both  took 
refuge  in  silence.  It  was  the  first  shadow  that  had 
come  between  them,  and  that  thought  added  to  the 
weight  of  Lady  Eliza's  grief.  She  sat  in  the  deep 
window-seat,  looking  out  at  the  long  light  which  makes 
northern  summer  nights  so  short,  seeming  to  notice 
nothing  that  went  on  in  the  room.  The  sight  was 
torture  to  Cecilia,  for  a  certain  protectiveness  which 
mingled  with  her  love  for  her  aunt  made  her  feel  as 
though  she  had  wounded  some  trusting  child  to  death. 


176  THE  INTERLOPER 

Her  anticipations  of  a  few  hours  ago  had  been  so  different 
from  the  reality  she  had  found,  and  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  her  lover  sitting  in  his  solitary  home,  happy  in 
the  false  belief  that  all  was  well.  If  ever  she  had  seen 
happiness  on  a  human  face,  she  had  seen  it  on  his  as 
they  parted.  To-morrow  Lady  Eliza  would  receive  his 
letter. 

"Cecilia,"  she  said,  turning  suddenly  towards  the  girl, 
"I  said  things  I  did  not  mean  to  you  to-day;  God 
knows  I  did  not  mean  them.  You  must  forgive  me 
because  I  am  almost  beside  myself  to-night.  You  don't 
understand,  child,  and  you  never  will.  Oh,  Cecilia, 
life  has  gone  so  hard  with  me !  I  am  a  miserable  old 
woman  with  rancour  in  her  heart,  who  has  made  a 
sorry  business  of  this  world ;  but  it  is  not  my  fault — it  is 
not  all  my  fault — and  it  shall  never  divide  you  from  me. 
But  have  patience  with  me,  darling;  my  trouble  is  so 
great." 

As  they  parted  for  the  night,  she  looked  back  from 
the  threshold  of  her  room. 

"To-morrow  I  shall  feel  better,"  she  said;  "I  will  try 
to  be  different  to-morrow." 

Cecilia  lay  sleepless,  thinking  of  many  things.  She 
recalled  herself,  a  little,  thin  girl,  weak  from  a  long 
illness,  arriving  at  Morphie  more  than  a  dozen  years  ago. 
She  had  been  tired  and  shy,  dreading  to  get  out  of  the 
carriage  to  face  the  unknown  cousin  with  whom  she  was 
to  stay  until  the  change  had  recruited  her.  Life,  since 
the  death  of  her  parents,  who  had  gone  down  together 
in  the  wreck  of  an  East  Indiaman,  had  been  a  succession 
of  changes,  and  she  had  been  bandied  about  from  one 
relation  to  another,  at  home  nowhere,  and  weary  of 
learning  new  ways ;  the  learning  had  been  rough  as  well 
as  smooth,  and  she  did  not  know  what  might  await  her 
at  Morphie.  Lady  Eliza  had  come  out  to  receive  her 
in  a  shabby  riding-habit,  much  like  the  plum-coloured 
one  she  wore  now  and  in  much  the  same  state  of  repair, 


BETWEEN   LADY   ELIZA  AND   CECILIA  177 

and  she  had  looked  with  misgiving  at  the  determined 
face  under  the  red  wig.  She  had  cried  a  little,  from 
fatigue  of  the  long  journey  and  strangeness,  and  the 
formidable  lady  had  petted  her  and  fed  her  with  soup, 
and  finally  almost  carried  her  upstairs  to  bed.  Well 
could  she  recall  the  candlelight  in  the  room,  and  Lady 
Eliza  sitting  at  her  bedside  holding  her  hand  until  she 
fell  asleep.  She  had  not  been  accustomed  to  such 
things. 

She  remembered  how,  next  day,  she  had  been  coaxed 
to  talk  and  to  amuse  herself,  and  how  surprised  she  had 
been  at  the  wonderful  things  her  new  friend  could  do — 
how  she  could  take  horses  by  the  ears  as  though  they 
were  puppies,  and,  undaunted,  slap  the  backs  of  cows 
who  stood  in  their  path  as  they  went  together  to  search 
for  new  entertainment  in  the  fields.  She  had  been 
shown  the  stable,  and  the  great  creatures,  stamping  and 
rattling  their  head-ropes  through  the  rings  of  their 
mangers,  had  filled  her  with  awe.  How  familiar  she 
had  been  with  them  since  and  how  different  life  had  been 
since  that  day !  One  by  one  she  recalled  the  little 
episodes  of  the  following  years — some  joyful,  some 
pathetic,  some  absurd;  as  she  had  grown  old  enough  to 
understand  the  character  beside  which  she  lived,  her 
attitude  toward  it  had  changed  in  many  ways,  and, 
unconsciously,  she  had  come  to  know  herself  the  stronger 
of  the  two.  With  the  growth  of  strength  had  come  also 
the  growth  of  comprehension  and  sympathy.  She  had 
half  divined  the  secret  of  Lady  Eliza's  life,  and  only  a 
knowledge  of  a  few  facts  was  needed  to  show  her  the 
deeps  of  the  soul  whose  worth  was  so  plain  to  her. 
She  was  standing  very  near  to  them  now. 

She  fell  into  a  restless  sleep  troublous  with  dreams. 
Personalities,  scenes,  chased  each  other  through  her 
wearied  brain,  which  could  not  distinguish  the  false  from 
the  true,  but  which  was  conscious  of  an  unvarying 
background  of  distress.  Toward  morning  she  woke 


1 78  THE  INTERLOPER 

and  set  her  door  open,  for  she  was  feverish  with  tossing 
and  greedy  of  air.  As  she  stood  a  moment  on  the  landing 
a  subdued  noise  in  her  aunt's  room  made  her  go 
quickly  towards  it  and  stand  listening  at  the  door. 
It  was  the  terrible  sound  of  Lady  Eliza  sobbing  in 
the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CECILIA    PAYS    HER    DEBTS 

CECILIA  rose  to  meet  a  new  day,  each  moment  of  which 
the  coming  years  failed  to  obliterate  from  her  memory. 
In  the  first  light  hours  she  had  taken  her  happiness  in 
her  two  hands  and  killed  it,  deliberately,  for  the  sake 
of  the  woman  she  loved.  She  had  decided  to  part  with 
Gilbert  Speid. 

She  hid  nothing  from  herself  and  made  no  conceal- 
ment. She  did  not  pretend  that  she  could  offer  herself 
up  willingly,  or  with  any  glow  of  the  emotional  flame  of 
renunciation,  for  she  had  not  that  temperament  which 
can  make  the  sacrificial  altar  a  bed  of  inverted  luxury. 
She  neither  fell  on  her  knees,  nor  prayed,  nor  called  upon 
Heaven  to  witness  her  deed,  because  there  was  only  one 
thing  which  she  cared  it  should  witness,  and  that  was 
Lady  Eliza's  peace  of  mind.  Nor,  while  purchasing 
this,  did  she  omit  to  count  the  cost.  The  price  was  a 
higher  one  than  she  could  afford,  for,  when  it  was  paid, 
there  would  be  nothing  left. 

The  thing  which  had  culminated  but  yesterday  had 
been  growing  for  many  months,  and  only  those  who 
wait  for  an  official  stamp  to  be  put  upon  events  before 
admitting  their  existence  will  suppose  that  Cecilia  was 
parting  with  what  she  had  scarcely  had  time  to  find 
necessary.  She  was  parting  with  everything,  and  she 
knew  it.  The  piteousness  of  her  aunt's  unquestionably 
real  suffering  was  such  that  she  determined  it  must  end. 
That  someone  should  suffer  was  inevitable,  and  the  great 
gallantry  in  her  rose  up  and  told  her  that  she  could  bear 
more  than  could  Lady  Eliza. 

179 


i8o  THE   INTERLOPER 

What  she  could  scarcely  endure  to  contemplate  was 
Gilbert's  trouble,  and  his  almost  certain  disbelief  in  the 
genuineness  of  her  love.  In  the  eyes  of  the  ordinary 
person  her  position  was  correct  enough.  Her  engage- 
ment had  been  disapproved  of  by  her  natural  guardian, 
and  she  had,  in  consequence,  broken  it.  This  did  not 
affect  her  in  any  way,  for  she  was  one  to  whom  more  than 
the  exterior  of  things  was  necessary.  What  did  affect 
her  was  that,  without  so  much  as  the  excuse  of  being 
forbidden  to  marry  her  lover,  she  was  giving  him  his 
heart's  desire  and  then  snatching  it  away.  But,  as 
either  he  or  Lady  Eliza  had  to  be  sacrificed,  she  deter- 
mined that  it  should  be  Speid,  though  she  never  hesitated 
to  admit  that  she  loved  him  infinitely  the  better  of  the 
two.  He  was  young,  and  could  mend  his  life  again, 
whereas,  for  her  aunt,  there  was  no  future  which  could 
pay  her  for  any  present  loss.  And  she  had  had  so  little. 
She  understood  that  there  was  more  wrapped  up  in 
Lady  Eliza's  misery  than  she  could  fathom,  and  that, 
whatever  the  cause  of  the  enigma  might  be,  it  was 
something  vital  to  her  peace. 

The  hours  of  the  day  dragged  on.  She  did  not  know 
whether  to  dread  their  striking  or  to  long  for  the  sound, 
for  she  had  told  her  aunt  that  she  wished  to  see  her 
lover,  and  tell  him  the  truth  with  her  own  lips,  and  a 
message  had  been  sent  to  Whanland  to  summon  him  to 
Morphie  in  the  afternoon.  There  had  been  a  curious 
interview  between  the  two  women,  and  Lady  Eliza  had 
struggled  between  her  love  for  her  niece  and  her  hatred 
of  the  marriage  she  contemplated.  She,  also,  had 
chastened  her  soul  in  the  night-season,  and  told  herself 
that  she  would  let  no  antipathy  of  her  own  stand  in  the 
way  of  her  happiness ;  but  her  resolution  had  been  half- 
hearted, and,  unable  to  school  her  features  or  her  words, 
she  had  but  presented  a  more  vivid  picture  of  distress. 
She  had  not  deceived  Cecilia,  nor,  to  tell  the  truth,  had 
Cecilia  entirely  succeeded  in  deceiving  her;  but  her  own 


feelings  had  made  the  temptation  to  shut  her  eyes  too 
great  for  her  complete  honesty  of  purpose. 

Cecilia  had  given  her  reasons  for  her  change  of  in- 
tention very  simply,  saying  merely  that,  since  their 
discussion  of  yesterday,  she  had  seen  the  inadvisability 
of  the  marriage.  To  all  questions  she  held  as  brave  a 
front  as  she  could,  only  demanding  that  she  should  see 
Gilbert  alone,  and  tell  him  her  decision  with  no  inter- 
vention on  the  part  of  Lady  Eliza.  To  be  in  a  position 
to  demand  anything  was  an  unusual  case  for  a  girl  of 
those  days,  but  the  conditions  of  life  at  Morphie  were 
unusual,  both  outwardly  and  inwardly,  and  the  two 
women  had  been  for  years  as  nearly  equal  as  any  two 
can  be,  where,  though  both  are  rich  in  character,  one  is 
complicated  in  temperament  and  the  other  primitive. 
It  was  on  Cecilia's  side  that  the  real  balance  of  power 
dipped,  however  unconsciously  to  herself  the  scale  went 
down. 

The  task  before  her  almost  took  her  courage  away,  for 
she  had,  first,  to  combat  Speid,  when  her  whole  heart  was 
on  his  side,  and  then  to  part  from  him — not  perhaps, 
finally,  in  body,  for  she  was  likely  to  meet  him  at  any 
time,  but  in  soul  and  in  heart.  One  part  of  her  work 
she  would  try,  Heaven  helping  her,  to  do,  but  the  other 
was  beyond  her.  Though  she  would  never  again  feel 
the  clasp  of  his  arm,  nor  hear  from  his  lips  the  words 
that  had  made  yesterday  the  crown  of  her  life,  she 
would  be  his  till  her  pulses  ceased  to  beat.  Much 
and  terribly  as  she  longed  to  see  him,  dread  of  their 
parting  was  almost  stronger  than  the  desire;  but  fear 
lest  he  should  suppose  her  decision  rested  on  anything 
about  his  parentage  which  Lady  Eliza  had  told  her  kept 
her  strong.  Never  should  he  think  that.  Whatever 
reasons  she  had  given  her  aunt,  he  should  not  go  without 
understanding  her  completely,  and  knowing  the  truth 
down  to  the  very  bed-rock.  She  shed  no  tears.  There 
would  be  plenty  of  time  for  tears  afterward,  she  knew, 


i8z  THE  INTERLOPER 

when  there  would  be  nothing  for  her  to  do,  no  crisis  to 
meet,  and  nothing  to  be  faced  but  daily  life. 

Gilbert  started  for  Morphie  carrying  the  note  she  had 
sent  him  in  his  pocket.  He  had  read  and  re-read  it  many 
times  since  its  arrival  that  morning  had  filled  his  whole 
being  with  gloom.  The  idea  of  his  presenting  himself, 
full  of  hope,  to  meet  the  decree  which  awaited  him  was 
so  dreadful  that  she  added  to  her  summons  a  few  sen- 
tences telling  him  that  he  must  be  prepared  for  bad 
news.  She  had  written  no  word  of  love,  for  she  felt 
that,  until  she  had  explained  her  position  to  him,  such 
words  could  only  be  a  mockery. 

He  stood  waiting  in  the  room  into  which  he  had  been 
ushered,  listening  for  her  step.  He  suspected  that  he 
had  been  summoned  to  meet  Lady  Eliza,  but  he  did  not 
mean  to  leave  Morphie  without  an  endeavour  to  see 
Cecilia  herself.  When  she  entered  he  was  standing 
quietly  by  the  mantelpiece.  She  looked  like  a  ghost  in 
her  white  dress,  and  under  her  eyes  the  fingers  of  sleep- 
lessness had  traced  dark  marks.  He  sprang  forward, 
and  drew  her  towards  him. 

"No,  no !"  she  cried,  throwing  out  her  hands  in  front 
of  her. 

Then,  as  she  saw  his  look,  she  faltered  and  dropped 
them,  letting  his  arms  encircle  her.  The  intoxication 
of  his  nearness  was  ^over  her,  and  the  very  touch  of  his 
coat  against  her  face  was  rest,  after  the  struggle  of  the 
hours  since  she  had  seen  him. 

She  drew  herself  away  at  last. 

"What  does  that  message  mean?"  he  asked,  as  he 
let  her  go. 

She  had  thought  of  so  many  things  to  say  to  him,  she 
had  meant  to  tell  him  gently,  to  choose  her  words;  but, 
now  he  was  beside  her,  she  found  that  everything  took 
flight,  and  only  the  voice  of  her  own  sorrow  remained. 

"Oh,  Gilbert — Gilbert!"  she  sighed,  "there  are 
stronger  things  than  you  or  I !  Yesterday  we  were  so 


CECILIA  PAYS  HER  DEBTS  183 

happy,  but  it  is  over,  and  we  must  not  think  of  each 
other  any  more!" 

"Cecilia!"  he  cried,  aghast. 

"It  is  true." 

"What  are  you  saying?"  he  exclaimed,  almost 
roughly.  "What  did  you  promise  me?  You  said  that 
nothing  should  change  you,  and  I  believed  it!" 

"Nothing  has — nothing  can — but,  for  all  that,  you 
must  give  me  up.  It  is  for  my  aunt's  sake,  Gilbert. 
If  you  only  saw  her  you  would  understand  what  I  have 
gone  through.  It  is  no  choice  of  mine.  How  can  you 
think  it  is  anything  to  me  but  despair?" 

Speid's  heart  sank,  and  the  thing  whose  shadow  had 
risen  as  he  locked  up  the  jewels  and  looked  at  his 
mother's  face  on  the  wall  loomed  large  again.  He 
guessed  the  undercurrent  of  her  words. 

"She  has  not  forbidden  me  to  marry  you,"  continued 
Cecilia,  "but  she  has  told  me  it  will  break  her  heart  if 
I  do,  and  I  believe  it  is  true.  What  is  the  use  of  hiding 
anything  from  you  ?  There  is  something  in  the  back- 
ground that  I  did  not  know ;  'but  if  you  imagine  that  it 
can  make  any  difference  to  me,  you  are  not  the  man  I 
love,  not  the  man  I  thought.  You  believe  me  ?  You 
understand?" 

"I  understand — I  believe,"  he  said,  turning  away 
his  head.  "Ah,  my  God!" 

"But  you  do  not  doubt  me — myself?"  she  cried,  her 
heart  wrung  with  fear. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her.  Reproach,  suffering, 
pain  unutterable,  were  in  his  eyes ;  but  there  was  absolute 
faith  too. 

"But  must  it  be,  Cecilia?  I  am  no  passive  boy  to  let 
my  life  slip  between  my  fingers  without  an  effort.  Let 
me  see  Lady  Eliza.  Let  me  make  her  understand  what 
she  is  doing  in  dividing  you  and  me.  I  tell  you  I  will 
see  her !" 

"She  will  not  forbid  it,  for  she  has  told  me  to  act  for 


184  THE  INTERLOPER 

myself  and  leave  her  out  of  my  thoughts;  but  she  is 
broken-hearted.  It  is  piteous  to  see  her  face.  There  is 
something  more  than  I  know  at  the  root  of  this  trouble 
about  you — and  it  concerns  her.  I  have  asked  her,  and 
though  she  admitted  I  was  right,  she  forbade  me  to 
speak  of  it.  You  would  have  pitied  her  if  you  had  seen 
her.  I  cannot  make  her  suffer — I  cannot,  even  for  you." 

"And  have  you  no  pity  for  me?"  he  broke  out. 

The  tears  she  had  repressed  all  day  rushed  to  her  eyes. 
She  sat  down  and  hid  her  face.  There  was  a  silence  as 
she  drew  out  her  handkerchief,  pressing  it  against  her 
wet  eyelashes. 

"Think  of  what  I  owe  her,"  she  continued,  forcing  her 
voice  into  its  natural  tone — "think  what  she  has  done 
for  me !  Everything  in  my  life  that  has  been  good  has 
come  from  her,  and  I  am  the  only  creature  she  has. 
How  can  I  injure  her?  I  thought  that,  at  Whanland, 
we  should  hardly  have  been  divided,  but  it  seems  that 
we  could  never  meet  if  I  were  there.  She  has  told  me 
that." 

He  struck  the  back  of  the  chair  by  which  he  stood  with 
his  clenched  fist. 

"And  so  it  is  all  over,  and  I  am  to  go?"  he  cried.  "I 
cannot,  Cecilia — I  will  not  accept  it !  I  will  not  give 
you  up !  You  may  push  me  away  now,  but  I  will  wait 
for  ever,  for  you  are  mine,  and  I  shall  get  you  in  the 
end !" 

She  smiled  sadly. 

"You  may  waste  your  life  in  thinking  of  that,"  she 
answered.  "To  make  it  afresh  is  the  wisest  thing  for 
you  to  do,  and  you  can  do  it.  There  is  the  difference 
between  you  and  my  aunt.  It  is  nearly  over  for  her, 
and  she  has  had  nothing;  but  you  are  young — you  can 
remake  it  in  time,  if  you  will." 

"I  will  not.     I  will  wait." 

He  gazed  at  her,  seeing  into  her  heart  and  finding  only 
truth  there. 


CECILIA  PAYS  HER  DEBTS  185 

"You  will  learn  to  forget  me,"  says  the  flirt  and  jilt, 
raising  chaste  eyes  to  heaven,  and  laying  a  sisterly  hand 
on  the  shoulder  of  the  man  she  is  torturing,  while  she 
listens,  with  satisfaction,  to  his  hot  and  miserable  denial. 

The  only  comfort  in  such  cases  is  that  he  generally 
does  so.  But  with  Cecilia  there  was  no  false  sentiment, 
nor  angling  for  words  to  minister  to  her  vanity.  He 
knew  that  well.  Thoroughly  did  he  understand  the 
worth  of  what  he  was  losing.  He  thought  of  the  plans 
he  had  made  only  last  night,  of  the  flowers  to  be  planted, 
of  the  rooms  to  be  transformed,  of  the  horse  to  be  bought, 
of  the  jewels  he  had  chosen  for  her  from  the  iron  box. 
One  was  lying  now  in  a  drawer  of  his  writing-table, 
ready  to  be  brought  to  her,  and  last  night  he  had  dreamed 
that  he  was  fastening  it  round  her  neck.  That  visionary 
act  would  have  to  suffice  him. 

He  came  across  the  room  and  sat  down  by  her,  putting 
his  arm  about  her.  They  were  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
looking  together  into  the  gulf  of  separation  before  them. 
Life  had  played  both  of  them  an  evil  trick,  but  there  was 
one  thing  she  had  been  unable  to  do,  and  that  was  to 
shake  their  faith  in  each  other.  Cecilia  had  told  her 
lover  that  he  should  make  his  own  afresh,  and  had  spoken 
in  all  honesty,  knowing  that,  could  she  prevent  his  acting 
on  her  words  by  the  holding  up  of  her  finger,  she  would 
not  raise  it  an  inch;  but  for  all  that,  she  did  not  believe 
he  would  obey  her.  Something  in  herself,  which  also  had 
its  counterpart  in  him,  could  foretell  that. 

To  struggle  against  her  decision  was,  as  Speid  knew, 
hopeless,  for  it  was  based  upon  what  it  would  lower  him 
in  her  eyes  to  oppose.  To  a  certain  extent  he  saw  its 
force,  but  he  would  not  have  been  the  man  he  was,  nor, 
indeed,  a  man  of  any  kind,  had  he  not  felt  hostile  to 
Lady  Eliza.  He  paid  small  attention  to  the  assurance 
that,  behind  her  obvious  objection  to  his  own  history, 
there  lurked  a  hidden  personal  complication,  for  the 
details  of  such  an  all-pervading  ill  as  the  ruin  she  had 


i86  THE  INTERLOPER 

made  for  him  were,  to  him,  indifferent.  He  would  wait 
determinedly.  Crauford  Fordyce  ran  through  his  mind, 
for,  though  his  trust  in  Cecilia  was  complete,  it  had 
annoyed  him  to  hear  that  he  was  in  Kaims.  Evidently 
the  young  man  was  of  a  persevering  nature,  and,  however 
little  worldly  advantages  might  impress  her,  he  knew 
that  these  things  had  an  almost  absolute  power  over 
parents  and  guardians. 

"You  told  me  to  remake  my  life,"  he  said,  "and  I  have 
answered-that  I  will  not;  •>  Oh,  Cecilia !  I  cannot  tell  you 
to  do  that !  Do  you  know  it  makes  me  wretched  to 
think  that  Fordyce  is  here  again.  Forgive  me  for  saying 
it.  Tell  me  that  you  can  never  care  for  him.  I  do  not 
ask  to  know  anything  more.  Darling,  do  not  be  angry." 

He  raised  her  face  and  looked  into  it..  There  was  no 
anger,  but  a  little  wan  of  ray  amusement  played  round 
her  mouth. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid;  there  is  nothing  in  him  to 
care  for.  His  only  merits  are  his  prospects,  and  Heaven 
knows  they  do  not  attract  me,"  she  replied. 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck,  and  the  two 
looked  up.  Outside  on  the  grass  the  shadows  of  the 
grazing  sheep  were  long.  His  arm  tightened  round  her. 

"I  cannot  go  yet,"  he  said.  "A  little  longer,  Cecilia 
— a  few  minutes — and  then  the  sooner  it  is  over  the 
better." 

The  room  grew  very  still,  and,  through  the  open  win- 
dow, came  the  long  fluting  of  a  blackbird  straying  in  the 
dew.  All  her  life  the  sound  carried  Cecilia  back  to  that 
hour.  There  seemed  nothing  more  to  be  spoken  but 
that  last  word  that  both  were  dreading. 

"This  is  only  torment,"  she  said  at  last — "go  now." 

An  overpowering  longing  rushed  through  her  to  break 
the  web  that  circumstances  had  woven  between  them, 
to  take  what  she  had  renounced,  to  bid  him  stay,  to  trust 
to  chance  that  time  would  make  all  well.  How  could 
she  let  him  go  when  it  lay  in  her  hands  to  stave  off  the 


CECILIA  PAYS  HER  DEBTS  187 

moment  that  was  coming  ?  She  had  reached  the  turning- 
point,  the  last  piece  of  her  road  at  which  she  could  touch 
hands  with  happiness. 

He  was  holding  her  fast. 

"I  am  going,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  like  the  voice  of  a 
stranger — someone  a  long  way  off. 

She  could  not  speak.  There  were  a  thousand  things 
which,  when  he  was  gone,  she  knew  that  she  must  blame 
herself  for  not  saying,  but  they  would  not  stay  with  her 
till  her  lips  could  frame  them. 

"  Perhaps  we  shall  sometimes  see  each  other,"  he  whis- 
pered, "but  God  knows  if' I  could  bear.it." 

They  clung  together  in  a  maze  of  kisses  and  incoherent 
words.  When  they  -separated,  she  stood  trembling  in 
the  middle  of  the  room.  He  looked  back  at  her  from  the 
threshold,  and  turned  again. 

"  Gilbert !  Gilbert !"  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  round 
his  neck. 

Then  they  tore  themselves  apart,  and  the  door  closed 
between  them  and  upon  everything  that  each  had  come 
to  value  in  life. 

When  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet  had  died,  she  stayed 
on  where  he  had  left  her.  One  who  is  gone  is  never 
quite  gone  while  we  retain  the  fresh  impression  of  his 
presence.  She  knew  that,  and  she  was  loth  to  leave  a 
place  which  seemed  still  to  hold  his  personality.  She 
sat  on,  unconscious  of  time,  until  a  servant  came  in  to 
shut  the  windows,  and  then  she  went  downstairs  and 
stood  outside  the  front-door  upon  the  flags.  The  black- 
bird was  still  on  the  grass  whistling,  but  at  the  sudden 
appearance  of  her  figure  in  the  doorway,  he  flew,  shriek- 
ing in  rich  gutturals,  into  cover. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    BOX    WITH    THE    LAUREL-WREATH 

SPEID  rode  home  without  seeing  a  step  of  the  way, 
though  he  never  put  his  horse  out  of  a  walk ;  he  was  like 
a  man  inheriting  a  fortune  which  has  vanished  before  he 
has  had  time  to  do  more  than  sign  his  name  to  the  docu- 
ment that  makes  it  his.  But,  in  spite  of  the  misery  of 
their  parting,  he  could  not  and  would  not  realise  that  it 
was  final.  He  was  hot  and  tingling  with  the  determina- 
tion to  wear  down  Lady  Eliza's  opposition;  for  he  had 
decided,  with  Cecilia's  concurrence  or  without  it,  to  see 
her  himself,  and  to  do  what  he  could  to  bring  home  to 
her  the  ruin  she  was  making  of  two  lives. 

He  could  not  find  any  justice  in  her  standpoint ;  if  she 
had  refused  to  admit  him  to  her  house  or  her  acquaint- 
ance, there  might  have  been  some  reason  in  her  act,  but 
she  had  acknowledged  him  as  a  neighbour,  iavited  him 
to  Morphie,  and  had  at  times  been  on  the  verge  of  friend- 
liness. She  knew  that,  in  spite  of  any  talk  that  was 
afloat,  he  had  been  well  received  by  the  people  of  the 
county,  for  the  fact  that  he  had  not  mixed  much  with 
them  was  due  to  his  own  want  of  inclination  for  the  com- 
pany offered  him.  He  was  quite  man  of  the  world  enough 
to  see  that  his  presence  was  more  than  welcome  wherever 
mothers  congregated  who  had  daughters  to  dispose  of, 
and,  on  one  or  two  occasions  of  the  sort,  he  remembered 
that  Lady  Eliza  had  been  present,  and  knew  she  must 
have  seen  it  too. 

As  he  had  no  false  pride,  he  had  also  no  false  humility, 
for  the  two  are  so  much  alike  that  it  is  only  by  the 

188 


THE  BOX  WITH  THE  LAUREL-WREATH     189 

artificial  light  of  special  occasions  that  their  difference 
can  be  seen.  He  had  believed  that  Lady  Eliza  would  be 
glad  to  give  him  Cecilia.  He  knew  very  well  that  the 
girl  had  no  fortune,  for  it  was  a  truth  which  the  female 
part  of  the  community  were  not  likely  to  let  a  young 
bachelor  of  means  forget;  and  he  had  supposed  that  a 
man  who  could  provide  for  her,  without  taking  her  four 
miles  from  the  gates  of  Morphie,  would  have  been  a  desir- 
able suitor  in  Lady  Eliza's  eyes.  Her  opposition  must, 
as  he  had  been  told,  be  rooted  in  an  unknown  obstacle; 
but,  more  ruthless  than  Cecilia,  he  was  not  going  to  let 
the  hidden  thing  rest.  He  would  drag  it  to  the  light, 
and  deal  with  it  as  he  would  deal  with  anything  which 
stood  in  his  way  to  her.  Few  of  us  are  perfect ;  Gilbert 
certainly  was  not,  and  he  did  not  care  what  Lady  Eliza 
felt.  It  was  not  often  that  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  a 
woman,  and  he  had  never  set  his  heart  and  soul  upon  one 
before.  If  he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  turn  back 
when  there  was  no  soul  in  the  affair,  he  was  not  going  to 
do  so  now  that  it  was  a  deeper  question. 

The  curious  thing  was  that,  though  it  went  against 
himself,  he  admired  Cecilia's  attitude  enormously ;  at  the 
same  time,  the  feeling  stopped  short  of  imitation.  While 
with  her  he  had  been  unable  to  go  against  her,  and  the 
creeping  shadow  of  their  imminent  parting  had  wrought 
a  feeling  of  exaltation  in  him  which  prevented  him  from 
thinking  clearly.  But  that  moment  had  passed.  He 
understood  her  feelings  and  respected  them,  but  they 
were  not  his,  and  he  was  going  to  the  root  of  the  matter 
without  scruple.  . 

For  all  that,  it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  stood 
at  his  own  door  and  saw  Macquean,  who  looked  upon 
every  horse  as  a  dangerous  wild  beast,  leading  the  roan 
to  the  stable  at  the  full  stretch  of  his  arm.  With  a 
heavier  one  still  he  sat,  when  the  household  had  gone  to 
bed,  contrasting  to-night  with  yesterday.  Last  night 
Whanland  had  been  filled  with  dreams ;  to-night  it  was 


igo  THE  INTERLOPER 

filled  with  forebodings.  To-morrow  he  must  collect  his 
ideas,  and  send  his  urgent  request  for  an  interview  with 
Lady  Eliza  Lament;  and,  if  she  refused  to  see  him,  he 
would  put  all  he  meant  to  ask  into  writing  and  despatch 
the  letter  by  hand  to  Morphie. 

In  his  writing-table  drawer  was  the  chain  with  the 
emerald  and  diamond  ends,  which  he  had  left  there  in 
readiness  to  give  to  Cecilia,  and  he  sighed  as  he  took  it 
out,  meaning  to  return  it  to  its  iron  resting-place  in  the 
room  by  the  cellar.  What  if  it  should  have  to  rest  there 
for  years?  He  opened  the  little  laurel -wreathed  box 
and  drew  out  the  jewel ;  the  drop  of  green  fire  lay  in  his 
hand  like  a  splash  of  magic.  Though  he  had  no  heart 
for  its  beauty  to-night,  all  precious  gems  fascinated  Gil- 
bert, this  one  almost  more  than  any  he  had  ever  seen. 
Emeralds  are  stones  for  enchantresses,  speaking  as  they 
do  of  velvet,  of  poison,  of  serpents,  of  forests,  of  things 
buried  in  enchanted  seas,  rising  and  falling  under  the 
green  moonlight  of  dream-countries  beyond  the  bounds 
of  the  world.  But  all  he  could  think  of  was  that  he  must 
hide  it  away  into  the  dark,  when  it  ought  to  be  lying  on 
Cecilia's  bosom. 

He  replaced  it  in  its  box,  shutting  the  lid,  and  went  to 
the  writing-table  behind  him  to  close  the  drawer ;  as  he 
turned  back  quickly,  his  coat-tail  swept  the  whole  thing 
off  the  polished  mahogany,  and  sent  it  spinning  into  the 
darkness.  He  saw  the  lid  open  as  it  went  and  the  chain 
flash  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  like  a  snake  with  glitter- 
ing eyes.  He  sprang  after  it,  and  brought  it  back  to  the 
light  to  find  it  unhurt,  then  went  to  recover  the  box. 
This  was  not  easy  to  do,  for  the  lid  had  rolled  under  one 
piece  of  furniture  and  the  lower  part  under  another;  but, 
with  the  help  of  a  stick,  he  raked  both  out  of  the  shad- 
ows, and  carried  them,  one  in  either  hand,  to  examine 
them  under  the  candle.  It  struck  him  that,  for  an  object 
of  its  size,  the  lower  half  was  curiously  heavy,  and  he 
weighed  it  up  and  down,  considering  it.  As  he  did  so,  it 


THE  BOX  WITH  THE  LAUREL-WREATH     191 

rattled,  showing  that  the  fall  must  have  loosened  some- 
thing in  its  construction.  It  was  a  deep  box,  and  its 
oval  shape  did  not  give  the  idea  that  it  had  been  origin- 
ally made  to  hold  the  chain  he  had  found  in  it.  It  was 
lined  with  silk  which  had  faded  to  a  nondescript  colour, 
and  he  guessed,  from  the  presence  of  a  tiny  knob  which 
he  could  feel  under  the  thin  stuff,  that  it  had  a  false  bot- 
tom and  that  the  protuberance  was  the  spring  which 
opened  it.  This  had  either  got  out  of  repair  from  long 
disuse,  or  else  its  leap  across  the  floor  had  injured  it,  for, 
press  as  he  might,  sideways  or  downward,  he  could 
produce  no  effect.  He  turned  the  box  upside  down, 
and  the  false  bottom  fell  out,  broken,  upon  the  table, 
exposing  a  miniature  which  fitted  closely  into  the  real 
one  behind  it. 

It  was  the  carefully  executed' likeness  of  a  young  man, 
whose  face  set  some  fugitive  note  of  association  vibrating 
in  him,  and  made  him  pause  as  he  looked,  while  he 
mentally  reviewed  the  various  ancestors  on  his  walls. 
The  portrait  had  been  taken  full  face,  which  prevented 
the  actual  outline  of  the  features  from  being  revealed, 
but  it  was  the  expression  which  puzzled  Gilbert  by  its 
familiarity.  The  character  of  the  eyebrows,  drooping 
at  the  outer  corner  of  the  eyes,  gave  a  certain  look  of 
petulance  that  had  nothing  transient  and  was  evidently 
natural  to  the  face.  He  had  seen  something  like  it 
quite  lately,  though  whether  on  a  human  countenance 
or  a  painted  one  he  could  not  tell.  The  young  man's 
dress  was  of  a  fashion  which  had  long  died  out.  Under 
the  glass  was  a  lock  of  hair,  tied  with  a  twist  of  gold 
thread  and  not  unlike  his  own  colour,  and  the  gold  rim 
which  formed  the  frame  was  engraved  with  letters  so 
fine  as  to  be  almost  illegible.  He  tried  to  take  out  the 
miniature,  but  he  could  not  do  so,  for  it  was  fixed  firmly 
into  the  bottom  of  the  box,  with  the  evident  purpose  of 
making  its  concealment  certain.  He  drew  the  light 
close.  The  sentence  running  round  the  band  was 


i92  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Addio,  anima  mia,"  and,  in  a  circle  just  below  the  hair, 
was  engraved  in  a  smaller  size  these  words:  "To  C.  L. 
fromR.  F.,  1765." 

He  was  face  to  face  with  the  secret  of  his  own  life,  and, 
in  an  instant,  he  understood  the  impression  of  familiarity 
produced  upon  him  by  the  picture,  for  the  "R.  F."  told 
him  all  that  he  had  not  known.  There  was  no  drop  in 
his  veins  of  the  blood  of  the  race  whose  name  he  bore, 
for  he  was  no  Speid.  Now  all  was  plain.  He  was 
Robert  Fullarton's  illegitimate  son. 

He  sat  in  the  sleeping  house  looking  at  the  little  box 
which  had  wrecked  his  hopes  more  effectually  than  any- 
thing he  had  experienced  that  day.  Now  he  understood 
Lady  Eliza;  now  he  realized  how  justifiable  was  her 
opposition.  How  could  he,  knowing  what  he  knew,  and 
what  no  doubt  every  soul  around  him  knew,  stand  up 
before  his  neighbours  and  take  Cecilia  by  the  hand? 
how  ask  her  to  share  the  name  which  everyone  could  say 
was  not  his  own  ?  how  endure  that  she  should  face  with 
him  a  state  of  affairs  which,  for  the  first  time,  he  clearly 
understood?  He  had  been  morally  certain,  before,  that 
the  bar  sinister  shadowed  him,  but,  though  he  could 
have  asked  her  to  live  under  it  with  him  when  its  exist- 
ence was  only  known  to  herself  and  to  him,  the  question 
being  a  social,  not  an  ethical  one,  it  would  be  an  impos- 
sibility when  the  whole  world  was  aware  of  it ;  when  the 
father  who  could  not  acknowledge  him  was  his  neigh- 
bour. Never  should  she  spend  her  life  in  a  place  where 
she  might  be  pointed  at  as  the  wife  of  a  nameless  man. 
Ah,  how  well  he  understood  Lady  Eliza ! 

But,  thoroughly  as  he  believed  himself  able  to  appre- 
ciate her  motives,  he  had  no  idea  of  the  extraordinary 
mixture  of  personal  feeling  in  which  they  were  founded, 
and  he  credited  her  with  the  sole  desire  to  save  Cecilia 
from  an  intolerable  position.  Though  he  never  doubted 
that  those  among  whom  he  lived  were  as  enlightened 
as  he  himself  now  was,  the  substance  of  the  posthumous 


THE  BOX  WITH  THE  LAUREL-WREATH  193 

revival  of  rumours,  attributed  by  many  to  gossip  arising 
from  Mr.  Speid's  actions  after  his  wife's  death,  was,  in 
reality,  the  only  clue  possessed  by  anyone. 

By  an  act  the  generosity  of  which  he  admired  with  all 
his  soul,  his  so-called  father  had  legitimised  him  as  far 
as  lay  in  his  power.  No  person  could  bring  any  proof 
against  him  of  being  other  than  he  appeared,  and  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law  he  was  as  much  Speid  of  Whanland  as 
the  man  he  had  succeeded.  He  admired  him  all  the 
more  when  he  remembered  that  it  was  not  an  over- 
whelming affection  for  himself  which  had  led  him  to 
take  the  step,  but  pure,  abstract  justice  to  a  human 
being,  who,  through  no  fault  of  his  own,  had  come  into 
the  world  at  a  disadvantage.  Nevertheless,  whatever 
his  legal  position,  he  was  an  interloper,  a  pretender.  He 
had  identified  himself  with  Whanland  and  loved  every 
stick  and  stone  it  in,  but  he  had  been  masquerading,  for 
all  that.  What  a  trick  she  had  played  him,  that  beauti- 
ful creature  upon  the  wall ! 

That  the  initials  painted  on  the  box  and  engraved  on 
the  frame  inside  were  C.  L.  and  not  C.  S.  proved  one 
thing.  However  guilty  she  had  been,  it  was  no  transient 
influence  which  had  ruined  Clementina.  Had  any  chance 
revealed  the  miniature's  existence  to  Mr.  Speid,  it  would 
have  explained  the  letter  he  had  received  from  her  father 
after  his  own  refusal  by  her,  and  it  would  have  shown 
him  an  everyday  tragedy  upon  which  he  had  unwittingly 
intruded,  to  his  own  undoing  and  to  hers.  Like  many 
another,  she  had  given  her  affections  to  a  younger  son — 
for  Robert,  in  inheriting  Fullarton,  had  succeeded  a 
brother — and,  her  parents  being  ambitious,  the  obstacle 
which  has  sundered  so  many  since  the  world  began  had 
sundered  these  two  also.  Mr.  Lauder  was  a  violent  and 
determined  man,  and  his  daughter,  through  fear  of  him, 
had  kept  secret  the  engagement  which  she  knew  must 
be  a  forlorn  hope  so  soon  as  he  should  discover  it.  When 
chance,  which  played  traitor  to  the  couple,  brought  it  to 


194  THE  INTERLOPER 

light,  the  sword  fell,  and  Robert,  banished  from  the 
presence  of  the  Lander  family,  returned  to  Fullarton  and 
to  the  society  of  his  devoted  elder  brother,  who  asked 
no  more  than  that  the  younger,  so  much  cleverer  than 
himself,  should  share  all  he  had.  The  miniature,  which 
he  had  gone  to  Edinburgh  to  sit  for,  and  for  which  he 
had  caused  the  little  box  to  be  contrived,  was  conveyed 
to  Clementina  with  much  difficulty  and  some  bribery. 
He  had  chosen  Italian  words  to  surround  it,  for  he  had 
made  the  "grand  tour"  with  his  brother,  and  had  some 
knowledge  of  that  language.  There  is  a  fashion,  even 
in  sentiment,  and,  in  those  days,  Italian  was  as  accepta- 
ble a  vehicle  for  it  to  the  polite  world  as  French  would 
be  now.  She  yielded  to  circumstances  which  she  had 
no  more  strength  to  fight  and  married  Mr.  Speid  a  couple 
of  years  later;  and  she  kept  the  relic  locked  away  among 
her  most  cherished  treasures.  She  had  not  changed, 
not  one  whit,  and  when,  at  her  husband's  desire,  she  sat 
for  her  portrait  to  David  Martin,  then  in  the  zenith  of 
his  work  in  the  Scottish  capital,  she  held  the  little  box 
in  her  hand,  telling  the  painter  it  was  too  pretty  to  go 
down  to  oblivion,  and  must  be  immortalised  also.  Mar- 
tin, vastly  admiring  his  sitter,  replied  gallantly,  and 
poor  Clementina,  who  never  allowed  her  dangerous  treas- 
ure to  leave  her  hand,  sat  in  agony  till  it  was  painted, 
and  she  could  return  it  to  the  locked  drawer  in  which  it 
was  kept.  There  was  a  vague  hope  in  her  mind  that  the 
man  she  had  not  ceased  to  love  might,  one  day,  see  the 
portrait  and  understand  the  silent  message  it  contained. 

Meanwhile,  at  Fullarton,  Robert,  who  had  been  absent 
when  Clementina  came  to  Whanland  as  a  bride,  was 
trying  to  cure  his  grief,  and,  superficially,  succeeding 
well  enough  to  make  him  think  himself  a  sounder  man 
than  he  was. 

He  went  about  among  the  neighbours  far  and  near, 
plunged  into  the  field-sports  he  loved,  and,  in  so  doing, 
saw  a  great  deal  of  Mr.  Lament,  of  Morphie,  and  his  sis- 


THE  BOX  WITH  THE  LAUREL-WREATH  195 

ter,  a  rather  peculiar  but  companionable  young  woman, 
whose  very  absence  of  feminine  charm  made  him  feel  an 
additional  freedom  in  her  society. 

At  this  time  his  elder  brother,  who  had  a  delicate  heart, 
quitted  this  world  quietly  one  morning,  leaving  the  house- 
hold awestruck  and  Robert  half  frantic  with  grief.  In 
this  second  sorrow  he  clung  more  closely  to  his  friends, 
and  was  more  than  ever  thrown  into  the  company  of 
Lady  Eliza.  To  her,  this  period  was  the  halcyon  time 
of  her  life,  and  to  him,  there  is  no  knowing  what  it  might 
have  become  if  Clementina  Speid  had  not  returned  from 
the  tour  she  was  making  with  her  husband,  to  find  her 
old  lover  installed  a  few  miles  from  her  door.  Was  ever 
woman  so  conspired  against  by  the  caprices  of  fate? 

Afterward,  when  her  short  life  ended  in  that  stirring 
of  conscience  which  opened  her  lips,  she  confessed  all. 
She  had  now  lain  for  years  expiating  her  sin  upon  the 
shore  by  Garviekirk. 

And  that  sin  had  risen  to  shadow  her  son ;  he  remem- 
bered how  he  had  been  moved  to  a  certain 'comprehension 
on  first  seeing  her  pictured  face,  without  even  knowing 
the  sum  of  the  forces  against  her.  Little  had  he  thought 
how  sorely  the  price  of  her  misdoing  was  to  fall  upon 
himself.  It  would  be  a  heavy  price,  involving  more 
than  the  loss  of  Cecilia,  for  it  would  involve  banishment 
too.  He  could  not  stay  at  Whanland.  In  time,  pos- 
sibly, when  she  had  married — he  ground  his  teeth  as  he 
told  himself  this — when  she  was  the  wife  of  some  thrice- 
fortunate  man  whose  name  was  his  own,  he  might  return 
to  the  things  he  loved  and  finish  his  life  quietly  among 
them.  But  not  this  year  nor  the  next,  not  in  five  years 
nor  in  ten.  He  had  no  more  heart  for  pretence.  This 
was  not  his  true  place;  he  should  never  have  come  to 
take  up  a  part  which  the  very  gods  must  have  laughed 
to  see  him  assume.  What  a  dupe,  what  a  fool  he  had 
been ! 

He  would  not  try  to  see  Cecilia  again,  but  he  would 


i96  THE  INTERLOPER 

write  to  her,  and  she  should  know  how  little  he  had 
understood  his  real  position  when  he  had  asked  for  her 
love — how  he  had  believed  himself  secure  against  the 
stirring-up  of  a  past  which  no  one  was  sufficiently 
certain  of  to  bring  against  him ;  which  was  even  indefinite 
to  himself.  She  should  hear  that  he  had  meant  to  tell 
her  all  he  knew,  and  that  he  believed  in  her  so  firmly  as 
never  to  doubt  what  the  result  would  have  been.  He 
would  bid  her  good-bye,  irrevocably  this  time;  for  she 
should  understand  that,  whatever  her  own  feelings,  he 
would  not  permit  her  to  share  his  false  position  before 
a  world  which  might  try  to  make  her  feel  it.  He 
thought  of  the  lady  in  the  Leghorn  bonnet,  who  had  sat 
on  the  red  sofa  at  the  Miss  Robertsons'  house,  and 
whose  chance  words  had  first  made  him  realise  the  place 
Cecilia  had  in  his  heart.  How  she  and  her  like  would 
delight  to  exercise  their  clacking  tongues  in  wounding 
her !  How  they  would  welcome  such  an  opportunity 
for  the  commonplace  ill-nature  which  was  as  meat  and 
drink  to  them !  But  it  was  an  opportunity  he  would 
not  give  them. 

So  he  sat  on,  determining  to  sacrifice  the  greater  to 
the  less,  and,  in  the  manliness  of  his  soul,  preparing  to 
break  the  heart  of  the  woman  he  loved — to  whose  mind 
the  approval  or  disapproval  of  many  ladies  in  Leghorn 
bonnets  would  be  unremarkable,  could  she  but  call 
herself  his. 

In  less  than  a  week  he  had  left  the  country,  and,  follow- 
ing an  instinct  which  led  him  back  to  the  times  before 
he  had  known  Scotland,  was  on  his  way  to  Spain. 


END    OF    BOOK    I 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  XIX 

SIX    MONTHS 

IT  was  six  months  since  Gilbert  Speid  had  gone  from 
Whanland.  Summer,  who  often  lingers  in  the  north, 
had  stayed  late  into  September,  to  be  scared  away  by 
the  forest  fires  of  her  successor,  Autumn.  The  leaves 
had  dropped,  and  the  ice-green  light  which  spreads 
above  the  horizon  after  sunset  on  the  east  coast  had 
ushered  in  the  winter. 

Christmas,  little  observed  in  Scotland,  was  over;  the 
New  Year  had  brought  its  yearly  rioting  and  its  general 
flavour  of  whisky,  goodwill,  and  demoralisation.  Many 
of  the  county  people  had  resorted  to  their  "town- 
houses"  in  Kaims,  where  card-parties  again  held  their 
sway,  and  Mrs.  Somerville,  prominent  among  local 
hostesses,  dispensed  a  genteel  hospitality. 

The  friendship  between  Barclay  and  Fordyce  was 
well  established,  for  the  young  gentleman  had  paid  the 
lawyer  a  second  visit,  even  more  soothing  to  his  feelings 
than  the  first.  In  the  minds  of  these  allies  Gilbert's 
departure  had  caused  a  great  stir,  for  Crauford  was  still 
at  Kaims  when  his  rival  summoned  Barclay,  and 
informed  him  that  he  was  leaving  Whanland  for  an 
indefinite  time.  But,  though  Fordyce  had  no  difficulty 
in  deciding  that  Speid 's  action  was  the  result  of  his 
being  refused  by  Cecilia  Raeburn,  Kaims  fitted  a  new 
and  more  elaborate  explanation  to  the  event  each  time 
it  was  mentioned.  The  matter  had  nothing  to  do 

197 


198  THE  INTERLOPER 

with  the  young  lady,  said  some.  Mr.  Speid  was  ruined. 
Anyone  who  did  not  know  of  his  disastrous  West  Indian 
speculations  must  have  kept  his  ears  very  tight  shut. 
And  this  school  of  opinion — a  male  one — closed  its 
hands  on  the  top  of  its  cane,  and  assumed  an  aspect  of 
mingled  caution  and  integrity.  This  view  was  generally 
expressed  in  the  street. 

In  the  drawing-rooms  more  luscious  theories  throve. 
Miss  Raeburn,  as  everyone  must  have  seen,  had  made 
a  perfect  fool  of  poor  Mr.  Speid.  All  the  time  she  had 
been  flirting — to  call  it  by  no  worse  a  name — with  that 
rich  young  Fordyce,  and  had  even  enticed  him  back, 
when  his  uncle  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  him  out  of 
her  way.  It  was  incredible  that  Mr.  Speid  had  only 
now  discovered  how  the  land  lay !  He  had  taken  it 
very  hard,  but  surely,  he  ought  to  have  known  what  she 
was !  It  was  difficult  to  pity  those  very  blind  people. 
It  was  also  opined  that  Mr.  Speid's  departure  was  but 
another  proof  of  the  depravity  of  those  who  set  them- 
selves up  and  were  over-nice  in  their  airs.  He  was 
already  a  married  man,  and  justice,  in  the  shape  of  an 
incensed  Spanish  lady — the  mother  of  five  children — 
had  overtaken  him  while  dangling  after  Miss  Raeburn. 
With  the  greatest  trouble,  the  stranger  had  been  got  out 
of  the  country  unseen.  It  was  a  lesson. 

Among  the  few  who  had  any  suspicions  of  the  truth, 
or,  at  least,  of  a  part  of  it,  was  Barclay ;  for  he  had  been  a 
young  clerk  in  his  father's  office  at  the  time  when  the  first 
Mr.  Speid  left  Whanland  in  much  the  same  way.  He 
could  not  help  suspecting  that  something  connected 
with  the  mystery  he  remembered  was  now  driving 
Gilbert  from  Scotland,  for  he  scorned  no  means  of 
inquiry,  and  had  heard,  through  channels  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  employ,  of  a  demeanour  in  Cecilia  which 
proved  it  impossible  that  she  had  sent  her  lover  away 
willingly.  Some  obstacle  had  come  between  them 
which  was  not  money;  the  lawyer  had  good  reasons  for 


SIX  MONTHS  199 

knowing  that  there  was  enough  of  that.  He  also  knew 
how  devoted  Lady  Eliza  was  to  the  young  woman,  and 
how  welcome  it  would  be  to  her  to  have  her  settled 
within  such  easy  reach.  He  did  not  believe  that  any 
personal  dislike  on  her  part  had  set  her  against  the 
marriage,  for,  however  little  he  liked  Gilbert  himself, 
he  knew  him  for  a  type  of  man  which  does  not  generally 
find  its  enemies  among  women.  He  was  certain,  in  his 
own  mind,  that  she  had  stood  in  the  way,  and  his  sus- 
picion of  her  reasons  for  doing  so  he  duly  confided  to 
Fordyce,  bidding  him  pluck  up  heart;  he  was  willing, 
he  said,  to  take  a  heavy  bet  that  a  year  hence  would 
see  Cecilia  at  the  head  of  his  table.  Thus  he  expressed 
himself. 

"And  I  hope  it  may  often  see  you  at  it  too,"  rejoined 
Crauford,  with  what  he  considered  a  particularly  happy 
turn  of  phrase.  Barclay  certainly  found  no  fault  with 
it. 

Though  Crauford's  vanity  had  made  the  part  of 
rejected  one  insupportable,  and  therefore  spurred  him 
forward,  he  probably  had  less  true  appreciation  of 
Cecilia  than  any  person  who  knew  her,  and  in  the 
satisfactory  word  "ladylike"  he  had  sunk  all  her 
wonderful  charm  and  unobvious,  but  very  certain, 
beauty;  he  would  have  to  be  a  new  man  before  they 
could  appeal  to  him  as  they  appealed  to  Gilbert.  What 
had  really  captivated  him  was  her  eminent  suitability 
to  great-ladyhood,  for  the  position  of  being  Mrs.  Crauford 
Fordyce  was  such  an  important  one  in  his  eyes  that  he 
felt  it  behoved  him  to  offer  it  immediately,  on  finding 
anyone  who  could  so  markedly  adorn  it. 

But,  under  the  manipulation  of  Barclay,  his  feelings 
were  growing  more  intense,  and  he  lashed  himself  into 
a  far  more  ardent  state  of  mind.  The  lawyer  hated 
Gilbert  with  all  his  heart,  and  therefore  spared  no  pains 
in  urging  on  his  rival.  His  desire  to  stand  well  with 
Fordyce  and  his  pleasure  in  frustrating  his  client  jumped 


200  THE  INTERLOPER 

the  same  way,  and  he  had  roused  his  new  friend's 
jealousy  until  he  was  almost  as  bitter  against  Speid  as 
himself.  Crauford,  left  alone,  would  probably  have 
recovered  from  his  disappointment  and  betaken  himself 
elsewhere,  had  he  not  been  stung  by  Barclay  into  a 
consistent  pursuit  of  his  object;  and,  as  it  was  upon  his 
worst  qualities  that  the  lawyer  worked,  his  character 
was  beginning  to  suffer.  For  all  the  elder  man's  vul- 
garity, he  had  a  great  share  of  cleverness  in  dealing  with 
those  who  had  less  brains  than  himself,  and  Fordyce  was 
being  flattered  into  an  unscrupulousness  of  which  no  one 
would  have  believed  him  capable.  He  would  have  done 
anything  to  worst  Gilbert. 

Meantime,  there  was  consternation  at  Fordyce  Castle. 
Crauford  had  no  wish  to  be  more  at  home  than  was 
necessary,  and  it  was  only  towards  the  end  of  Lady 
Maria  Milwright's  sojourn  there  that  he  returned,  to 
find  his  mother  torn  between  wrath  at  his  defection  and 
fear  lest  he  should  escape  anew.  The  latter  feeling 
forced  her  into  an  acid  compliance  towards  him,  strange 
to  see.  But  he  was  impervious  to  it,  and,  to  the  innocent 
admiration  of  Lady  Maria,  in  whose  eyes  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  hero,  he  made  no  acknowledgment;  his  mind 
was  elsewhere.  Mary  and  Agneta  looked  on  timidly, 
well  aware  of  a  volcanic  element  working  under  their 
feet;  and  Agneta,  who  felt  rebellion  in  the  air  and  had 
some  perception  of  expediency,  made  quite  a  little 
harvest,  obtaining  concessions  she  had  scarce  hoped  for 
through  her  brother,  to  whom  Lady  Fordyce  saw  herself 
unable  to  deny  anything  in  reason.  It  was  a  self- 
conscious  household,  and  poor  Lady  Maria,  upon  whom 
the  whole  situation  turned,  was  the  only  really  peaceful 
person  in  it. 

Macquean  was  again  in  charge  of  Whanland  and  of 
such  things  as  remained  in  the  house;  the  stable  was 
empty,  the  picture  which  had  so  influenced  Gilbert  was 
put  away  with  its  fellows,  and  the  iron  box  of  jewels 


SIX  MONTHS  201 

had  returned  to  the  bankers.  The  place  was  silent, 
the  gates  closed. 

Before  leaving,  Speid  had  gone  to  Kaims  to  bid  his 
cousins  good-bye,  and  had  remained  closeted  with  Miss 
Hersey  for  over  an  hour.  He  said  nothing  of  his  dis- 
covery, and  made  no  allusion  to  the  barrier  which  had 
arisen  between  him  and  the  woman  he  loved.  He  only 
told  her  that  Cecilia  had  refused  him  at  Lady  Eliza's 
wish,  and  that,  in  consequence,  he  meant  to  leave  a 
place  where  he  was  continually  reminded  of  her  and 
take  his  trouble  to  Spain,  that  he  might  fight  it  alone. 
At  Miss  Hersey's  age  there  are  few  violent  griefs,  though 
there  may  be  many  regrets,  but  it  was  a  real  sorrow  to 
her  to  part  with  her  kinsman,  so  great  was  her  pride 
in  him.  To  her,  Lady  Eliza's  folly  was  inexplicable, 
and  the  "ill-talk"  on  account  of  which  she  no  longer 
visited  Mrs.  Somerville  did  not  so  much  as  enter  her 
mind.  Relations  are  the  last  to  hear  gossip  of  their 
kinsfolk,  and  the  rumours  of  thirty  years  back  had  only 
reached  her  in  the  vaguest  form,  to  be  looked  upon 
by  her  with  the  scorn  which  scurrilous  report  merits. 
That  they  had  the  slightest  foundation  was  an  idea 
which  had  simply  never  presented  itself.  Very  few 
ideas  of  any  kind  presented  themselves  to  Miss  Caroline, 
and  to  Miss  Hersey,  none  derogatory  to  her  own  family. 

"  Her  ladyship  is  very  wrong,  and  she  will  be  punished 
for  it,"  said  the  old  lady,  holding  her  gray  head  very 
high.  "Mr.  Speid  of  Whanland  is  a  match  for  any 
young  lady,  I  can  assure  her." 

He  looked  away.  Evidently  "Speid  of  Whanland" 
sounded  differently  to  himself  and  to  her.  He  wondered 
why  she  did  not  understand  what  had  gone  against  him, 
but  he  could  not  talk  about  it,  even  to  Miss  Hersey. 

"You  will  find  plenty  as  good  as  Miss  Raeburn,"  she 
continued.  "You  should  show  her  ladyship  that  others 
know  what  is  to  their  advantage  better  than  herself." 

Gilbert  sighed,  seeing  that  his  point  of  view  and  hers 


202  THE  INTERLOPER 

could  never  meet.  Granny  Stirk  would  have  under- 
stood him,  he  knew,  for  she  had  tasted  life;  but  this 
frail,  gentle  creature  had  reached  that  sexless  femininity 
of  mind  which  comes  after  an  existence  spent  apart 
from  men.  And  he  loved  her  none  the  less  for  her  lack 
of  comprehension,  knowing  the  loyalty  of  her  heart. 

"You  will  come  back,"  she  said,  "and,  maybe,  bring 
a  wife  who  will  put  the  like  of  Miss  Raeburn  out  of  your 
head.  I  would  like  to  see  it,  Gilbert;  but  Caroline  and  I 
are  very  old,  and  I  think  you  will  have  to  look  for  news 
of  us  on  the  stone  in  the  churchyard.  There  are  just 
the  two  names  to  come.  But,  while  we  are  here,  you 
must  tell  me  anything  that  I  can  do  for  you  after  you 
have  gone." 

"I  will  write  to  you,  ma'am,"  said  Speid,  his  voice 
a  little  thick;  "and,  in  pny  ca|e;  I  mean  to  ask  you  a 
favour  before  I  go." 

She  looked  at  him  with  loving  eyes. 

"I  am  going  to  give  you  my  address,"  he  said,  "or, 
at  least,  an  address  that  will  eventually  find  me.  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  to  send  me  word  of  anything  that 
happens  to  Miss  Raeburn." 

"You  should  forget  her,  Gilbert,  my  dear." 

"Oh,  ma'am!  you  surely  cannot  refuse  me?  I  have 
no  one  but  you  of  whom  I  can  ask  it." 

"I  will  do  it,  Gilbert." 

It  was  with  this  understanding  that  they  parted. 

To  Jimmy  Stirk  and  his  grandmother  his  absence  made 
a  blank  which  nothing  could  fill.  The  old  woman 
missed  his  visits  and  his  talk,  his  voice  and  his  step,  his 
friendship  which  had  bridged  the  gulf  between  age  and 
youth,  between  rich  and  poor.  She  was  hardly  con- 
soled by  the  occasional  visits  of  Macquean,  who  would 
drop  in  now  and  then  to  recapitulate  to  her  the  circum- 
stances of  a  departure  which  had  never  ceased  to  surprise 
him.  He  was  not  cut  after  her  pattern,  but  she  tolerated 
him  for  his  master's  sake. 


SIX  MONTHS  203 

From  Morphie  bits  of  information  had  trickled;  on 
the  day  of  his  last  visit  the  servants  had  let  nothing 
escape  them,  and  Lady  Eliza's  face,  as  she  went  about 
the  house,  was  enough  to  convince  the  dullest  that  there 
was  tragedy  afoot.  A  maid  had  been  in  the  passage, 
who  had  seen  Gilbert  as  he  left  Cecilia. 

"Ye'll  no  have  gotten  any  word  o'  the  laird?"  in- 
quired Granny  on  one  of  the  first  days  of  the  young 
year,  as  Macquean  stopped  at  her  door. 

"Na,  na." 

The  old  woman  sighed,  but  made  no  gesture  of  in- 
vitation. From  behind  her,  through  the  open  half  of 
the  door,  Macquean  heard  the  sound  of  a  pot  boiling 
propitiously,  and  a  comfortable  smell  reached  him 
where  he  stood. 

"A*  was  saying  that  a'  hadna  heard  just  very  muckle," 
continued  he,  his  nostrils  wide— ."just  a  sma'  word " 

"Come  away  in-by,"  interrupted  the  Queen  of  the 
Cadgers,  standing  back,  and  holding  the  door  generously 
open.  "Maybe  ye'll  take  a  suppie  brose;  they're  just 
newly  made.  Bide  till  a'  gie  ye  spune  to  them." 

It  was  warm  inside  the  cottage,  and  he  entered,  and 
felt  the  contrast  between  its  temperature  and  that  of  the 
sharp  January  air  with  satisfaction.  Granny  tipped 
some  of  the  savoury  contents  of  the  black  pot  into  a 
basin. 

"What  was  it  ye  was  hearin'  about  the  laird?"  she 
asked,  as  she  added  a  horn  spoon  to  the  concoction,  and 
held  it  out  to  him. 

"Aw!  it  was  just  Wullie  Nicol.  He  was  sayin'  that 
he  was  thinkin'  the  laird  was  clean  awa'  now.  It's  a 
piecie  cauld,  d'ye  no  think?"  replied  Macquean,  as  well 
as  he  could  for  the  pleasures  of  his  occupation. 

"But  what  else  was  ye  to  tell  me?"  she  said,  coming 
nearer. 

"There  was  nae  mair  nor  that.     Yon's  grand  brose." 

With  the  exception  of  the  old  ladies  in  the  close,  no 


204  THE  INTERLOPER 

one  but  B  arclay  had  heard  anything  of  Speid .  M  acque  an 
received  his  wages  from  the  lawyer,  and  everything  went 
on  as  it  had  done  before  Gilbert's  return,  now  more  thafi 
a  year  since.  Business  letters  came  to  Barclay  at 
intervals,  giving  no  address  and  containing  no  news  of 
their  writer,  which  were  answered  by  him  to  a  mail  office 
in  Madrid.  To  any  communication  which  he  made 
outside  the  matter  in  hand  there  was  no  reply.  Miss 
Hersey  had  written  twice,  and  whatever  she  heard  in 
return  from  Speid  she  confided  only  to  her  sister.  It 
was  almost  as  though  he  had  never  been  among  them. 
The  little  roan  hack  and  the  cabriolet  with  the  iron- 
gray  mare  were  sold.  As  Wullie  Nicol  had  said,  he  was 
"clean  awa'  now." 

Gilbert's  one  thought,  when  he  found  himself  again  on 
Spanish  soil,  was  to  obliterate  each  trace  and  remem- 
brance of  his  life  in  Scotland,  and  he  set  his  face  to 
Madrid.  On  arriving,  he  began  to  gather  round  him 
everything  which  could  help  him  to  re-constitute  life 
as  it  had  been  in  Mr.  Speid's  days,  and,  though  he  could 
not  get  back  the  house  in  which  he  had  formerly  lived, 
he  settled  not  far  from  it  with  a  couple  of  Spanish 
servants  and  began  to  wonder  what  he  should  do  with 
his  time.  Nothing  interested  him,  nothing  held  him. 
Old  friends  came  flocking  round  him  and  he  forced  him- 
self to  respond  to  their  cordiality;  but  he  had  no  heart 
for  them  or  their  interests,  for  he  had  gone  too  far  on 
that  journey  from  which  no  one  ever  returns  the  same, 
the  road  to  the  knowledge  of  the  strength  of  fate. 
Senor  Gilbert  was  changed,  said  everyone;  it  was  that 
cold  north  which  had  done  it.  The  only  wonder  was 
that  it  had  not  killed  him  outright.  And,  after  a  time, 
they  let  him  alone. 

Miss  Hersey 's  letters  did  not  tell  him  much;  she 
heeded  little  of  what  took  place  outside  her  own  house 
and  less  since  he  had  gone;  only  when  Sunday  brought 
its  weekly  concourse  to  her  drawing-room  did  she  come 


SIX  MONTHS  205 

into  touch  with  the  people  round  her.  Of  Lady  Eliza, 
whose  Presbyterian  devotions  were  sheltered  by  Morphie 
kirk  and  who  made  no  visits,  she  saw  nothing.  Now 
and  then  the  news  would  reach  Spain  that  "Miss  Rae- 
burn  was  well"  or  that  "Miss  Raeburn  had  ridden  into 
Kaims  with  her  ladyship,"  but  that  was  all.  Gilbert 
had  wished  to  cut  himself  completely  adrift  and  he  had 
his  desire.  The  talk  made  by  his  departure  subsided 
as  the  circles  subside  when  a  stone  has  been  dropped  in 
a  duckpond;  only  Captain  Somerville,  seeing  Cecilia's 
face,  longed  to  pursue  him  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth,  and,  with  oaths  and  blows,  if  need  be,  to  bring 
him  back. 


CHAPTER  XX 

ROCKET 

THE  January  morning  was  moist  and  fresh  as  Lady 
Eliza  and  Cecilia  Raeburn,  with  a  groom  following  them, 
rode  towards  that  part  of  the  country  where  the  spacious 
pasture-land  began.  The  sun  was  at  their  backs  and 
their  shadows  were  shortening  in  front  of  them  as  it 
rose  higher.  The  plum-coloured  riding-habit  was  still 
in  existence,  a  little  more  weather-stained,  and  holding 
together  with  a  tenacity  that  provoked  Cecilia,  who 
had  pronounced  it  unfit  for  human  wear  and  been  dis- 
regarded. 

Rocket,  the  bay  mare,  was  pulling  at  her  rider  and 
sidling  along  the  road,  taking  no  count  of  remonstrance, 
for  she  had  not  been  out  for  several  days. 

"I  wish  you  had  taken  Mayfly,  aunt,"  remarked 
Cecilia,  whose  horse  walked  soberly  beside  his  fidgeting 
companion. 

"And  why,  pray?"  inquired  the  other,  testily. 

"Rocket  has  never  seen  hounds  and  I  am  afraid  she 
will  give  you  some  trouble  when  she  does.  At  any  rate, 
she  will  tire  you  out." 

"Pshaw!"  replied  Lady  Eliza. 

Six  months  had  passed  Cecilia,  bringing  little  outward 
change,  though,  thinking  of  them,  she  felt  as  though  six 
years  had  gone  by  in  their  stead;  her  spirits  were  ap- 
parently as  even,  her  participation  in  her  aunt's  interests 
apparently  the  same,  for  she  was  one  who,  undertaking  a 
resolve,  did  not  split  it  into  two  and  fulfil  the  half  she 
liked  best.  Each  of  our  acts  is  made  of  two  parts,  the 

206 


ROCKET  207 

spirit  and  the  letter,  and  it  is  wonderful  how  nominally 
honest  people  will  divide  them.  Not  that  there  is  aught 
wrong  in  the  division;  the  mistake  lies  in  taking  credit 
for  the  whole.  She  had  resolved  to  pay  for  her  aunt's 
peace  of  mind  with  her  own  happiness,  as  it  seemed  that 
it  could  be  bought  at  no  other  price,  and  she  was  deter- 
mined that  that  peace  of  mind  should  be  complete.  She 
gave  full  measure  and  the  irrevocableness  of  her  gift 
helped  her  to  go  on  with  her  life.  It  was  curious  that  a 
stranger,  lately  introduced  to  her,  and  hearing  that  she 
lived  with  Lady  Eliza  Lament,  had  called  her  "Mrs. 
Raeburn,"  in  the  belief  that  she  was  a  widow.  It  was 
not  an  unnatural  mistake,  for  there  was  something  about 
her  that  suggested  it.  Her  one  day's  engagement  to 
her  lover  was  a  subject  never  touched  upon  by  the  two 
women.  Once,  Lady  Eliza  had  suspected  that  all  was 
not  well  with  her  and  had  spoken ;  once  in  her  life  Cecilia 
had  fostered  a  misunderstanding. 

"I  could  not  have  married  him,"  she  had  replied;  "I 
have  thought  over  it  well." 

No  tone  in  her  voice  had  hinted  at  two  interpretations, 
and  the  elder  woman  had  read  the  answer  by  the  light  of 
her  own  feelings. 

The  laird  with  whose  harriers  they  were  to  hunt  that 
day  lived  at  a  considerable  distance.  It  was  not  often, 
in  those  times  before  railways  and  horse-boxes  were 
invented,  that  there  was  hunting  of  any  sort  within 
reach  of  Morphie.  There  were  no  foxhounds  in  the 
county  and  no  other  harriers,  though  Lady  Eliza  had, 
for  years,  urged  Fullarton  to  keep  them;  but  the  dis- 
cussion had  always  ended  in  his  saying  that  he  could 
not  afford  such  an  expense  and  in  her  declaring  that 
she  would  keep  a  pack  herself.  But  things  had  gone 
on  as  they  were,  and  a  dozen  or  so  of  days  in  a  season 
was  all  that  either  could  generally  get.  This  year  she 
had  only  been  out  twice. 

The  meet  was  at  a  group  of  houses  too  small  to  be 


208  THE  INTERLOPER 

called  a  village,  but  distinguished  by  the  presence  of  a 
public-house  and  the  remains  of  an  ancient  stone  cross. 
A  handful  of  gentlemen,  among  whom  was  Robert 
Fullarton,  had  assembled  on  horseback  when  they  ar- 
rived, and  these,  with  a  few  farmers,  made  up  the  field. 
Cecilia  and  her  aunt  were  the  only  females  in  the  little 
crowd,  except  a  drunken  old  woman  whose  remarks 
were  of  so  unbridled  a  nature  that  she  had  to  be  taken 
away  with  some  despatch,  and  the  wife  of  the  master, 
who,  drawn  up  decorously  in  a  chaise  at  a  decent  distance 
from  the  public-house,  cast  scathing  looks  upon  Lady 
Eliza's  costume.  Urchins,  ploughmen,  and  a  few 
nondescript  men  who  meant  to  follow  on  foot,  made  a 
background  to  the  hounds  swarming  round  the  foot 
of  the  stone  cross  and  in  and  out  between  the  legs  of 
the  whips'  horses.  The  pack,  a  private  one,  consisted 
of  about  fifteen  couple. 

Rocket,  who  expressed  her  astonishment  at  the  sight 
of  hounds  by  lashing  out  at  them  whenever  occasion 
served,  was  very  troublesome  and  her  rider  was  obliged 
to  keep  her  pacing  about  outside  the  fringe  of  bystanders 
until  they  moved  off ;  she  could  not  help  wishing  she  had 
done  as  Cecilia  suggested.  The  mare  was  always  hot, 
and  now  she  bid  fair  to  weary  her  out,  snatching  con- 
tinually at  her  bit  and  never  standing  for  a  moment. 

"Her  ladyship  is  very  fond  of  that  mare,"  observed 
Robert,  as  he  and  Cecilia  found  themselves  near  each 
other.  "Personally,  good-looking  as  she  is,  I  could  never 
put  up  with  her.  She  has  no  vice,  though." 

"It  is  her  first  sight  of  hounds,"  said  his  companion, 
"and  no  other  person  would  have  the  patience  to  keep 
her  as  quiet  as  she  is.  My  aunt's  saddle  could  so  easily 
be  changed  on  to  Mayfly.  She  will  be  worn  out  before 
the  day  is  over." 

"He  will  be  a  bold  man  who  suggests  it,"  said  he, 
with  a  smile  which  irritated  her  unreasonably. 

"If  he  were  yourself,  sir,  he  might  succeed.     There's 


ROCKET  209 

Mayfly  behind  that  tree  with  James.  It  could  be  done 
in  a  moment." 

"It  is  not  my  affair,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  he. 

They  were  in  a  part  of  the  country  where  they  could 
no  longer  see  the  Grampians  as  they  looked  into  the 
eastern  end  of  the  Vale  of  Strathmore.  Brown  squares 
of  plough-land  were  beginning  to  vary  the  pastures,  and, 
instead  of  the  stone  walls — or  "dykes,"  as  they  are 
called  on  the  coast — the  fields  were  divided  by  thorn 
hedges,  planted  thick,  and,  in  some  cases,  strengthened 
with  fencing.  On  their  right,  the  ground  ran  up  to  a 
fringe  of  scrub  and  whins  under  which  dew  was  still 
grey  round  the  roots;  the  spiders'  webs,  threading 
innumerable  tiny  drops,  looked  like  pieces  of  frosted 
wool,  as  they  spread  their  pigmy  awnings  between  the 
dried  black  pods  of  the  broom  and  the  hips  of  the  rose 
briers. 

The  rank  grass  and  the  bracken  had  been  beaten 
almost  flat  by  the  storms  of  winter,  and  they  could  get 
glimpses  of  the  pack  moving  about  among  the  bare 
stems  and  the  tussocks.  Fullarton  and  Cecilia  stood  in 
the  lower  ground  with  Lady  Eliza,  whose  mare  had 
quieted  down  a  good  deal  as  the  little  handful  of  riders 
spread  further  apart. 

As  the  three  looked  up,  from  the  outer  edge  of  the 
undergrowth  a  brown  form  emerged  and  sped  like  a 
silent  arrow  down  the  slope  toward  the  fields  in  front 
of  them;  a  quiver  of  sound  came  from  the  whins  as  a 
hound's  head  appeared  from  the  scrub.  Then,  in  an 
instant,  the  air  was  alive  with  music,  and  the  pack,  like 
a  white  ribbon,  streamed  down  the  hillside.  The  whip 
came  slithering  and  sliding  down  the  steepest  part  of  the 
bank,  dispersing  that  portion  of  the  field  which  had 
injudiciously  taken  up  its  position  close  to  its  base, 
right  and  left.  The  two  women  and  Fullarton,  who 
were  well  clear  of  the  rising  ground,  took  their  horses  by 
the  head,  and  Robert's  wise  old  horse,  with  nostrils 


210  THE  INTERLOPER 

dilated  and  ears  pointing  directly  on  the  hounds,  gave 
an  appreciative  shiver;  Rocket  lifted  her  forefeet,  then, 
as  she  felt  the  touch  of  Lady  Eliza's  heel,  bounded  for- 
ward through  the  plough. 

They  were  almost  in  line  as  they  came  to  the  low 
fence  which  stretched  across  their  front,  and,  beyond 
which,  the  hounds  were  running  in  a  compact  body. 
Rocket,  who  had  been  schooled  at  Morphie,  jumped  well 
in  the  paddock,  and,  though  Cecilia  turned  rather 
anxiously  in  her  saddle  when  she  had  landed  on  the 
further  side  of  the  fence,  she  saw,  with  satisfaction,  that 
Lady  Eliza  was  going  evenly  along  some  forty  yards 
wide  of  her.  They  had  got  a  better  start  than  anyone 
else,  but  the  rest  of  the  field  was  coming  up  and  there 
seemed  likely  to  be  a  crush  at  a  gate  ahead  of  them 
which  was  being  opened  by  a  small  boy.  Fullarton 
ignored  it  and  went  over  the  hedge;  his  horse,  who 
knew  many  things,  and,  among  them,  how  to  take  care 
of  himself,  measuring  the  jump  to  an  inch  and  putting 
himself  to  no  inconvenience.  In  those  days  few  women 
really  rode  to  hounds,  and,  to  those  present  who  had 
come  from  a  distance,  Lady  Eliza  and  her  niece  were 
objects  of  some  astonishment. 

"Gosh  me!"  exclaimed  a  rough  old  man  on  a  still 
rougher  pony,  as  he  came  abreast  of  Cecilia,  "I'll  no 
say  but  ye  can  ride  bonnie !  Wha  learned  ye  ? " 

"My  aunt,"  replied  she. 

"Will  yon  be  her?"  he  inquired,  shifting  his  ash  plant 
into  his  left  hand  and  pointing  with  his  thumb. 

She  assented. 

"Gosh!"  said  he  again,  as  he  dropped  behind. 

They  were  running  straight  down  the  strath  along  the 
arable  land ;  the  fields  were  large  and  Cecilia  was  relieved 
to  see  that  Rocket  was  settling  down,  and  that,  though 
she  jumped  big,  she  was  carrying  Lady  Eliza  well.  The 
horse  she  herself  was  riding  had  a  good  mouth,  and 
liked  hounds ;  and  when  they  turned  aside  up  a  drain,  and, 


ROCKET  211 

crossing  the  high  road,  were  running  through  more 
broken  ground,  she  found  herself  almost  the  only  person 
with  them,  except  the  master,  the  first  whip,  and 
Fullarton,  who  was  coming  up  behind.  They  were 
heading  rather  north-west  and  were  in  sight  of  the 
Grampians  again,  and  dykes  began  to  intersect  the  land- 
scape. Now  and  then,  patches  of  heather  and  bits 
of  swamp  intruded  themselves  on  the  cultivation. 
Though  they  had  really  only  come  a  very  few  miles,  they 
had  got  into  a  different  part  of  the  world,  and  she  was 
beginning  to  think  they  would  have  a  long  ride  home, 
considering  how  far  they  had  come  to  the  meet  and  how 
steadily  they  had  been  running  inland,  when  the  hounds 
checked  in  a  small  birch  plantation.  The  fresh  air  blew 
from  the  hills  through  the  leafless  silver  stems  and  the 
heavy  clouds  which  hung  over  them  seemed  laden  with 
coming  rain.  The  ground  had  been  rising  all  the  way 
and  some  of  the  horses  were  rather  blown,  for,  though 
the  ascent  was  gradual,  they  had  come  fast.  The  old 
man  on  the  rough  pony  got  off  and  stood,  the  rein  over 
his  arm,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  trees;  though  he  weighed 
fifteen  stone  he  had  the  rudiments  of  humanity,  and  his 
beast's  rough  coat  was  dripping. 

"I'm  thinking  I'll  awa'  hame,"  he  remarked  to  an 
acquaintance. 

Cecilia  was  just  looking  round  for  Lady  Eliza  when 
an  old  hound's  tongue  announced  his  discovery,  and  the 
pack  made  once  more,  with  their  heads  down,  for  the 
lower  ground. 

"Down  again  to  the  fields,  I  do  believe,"  said  Fullar- 
ton's  voice.  "That  horse  of  yours  carries  you  perfectly, 
Cecilia." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  my  aunt  ? "  said  she,  as  the 
hounds  turned  into  a  muddy  lane  between  high  banks. 

"She  was  going  well  when  I  saw  her,"  he  replied.  "  I 
think  she  wants  to  save  Rocket,  as  it  is  her  first  day.  It 
does  not  do  to  sicken  a  horse  with  hounds  at  the  be- 


2i2  THE  INTERLOPER 

ginning.  Yes,  there  they  go — westward  again — down 
to  the  strath.  I  doubt 'but  they  changed  their  hare  in 
the  birches." 

In  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  observed  how 
Rocket's  vehemence  was  giving  way  to  the  persuasion  of 
Lady  Eliza's  excellent  hands,  and  how  well  the  mare 
carried  her  over  the  fences  they  met.  It  was  a  pleasure 
to  see  her  enjoying  herself,  he  thought;  of  late,  he  had 
feared  she  was  ageing,  but  to-day  she  might  be  twenty- 
five,  as  far  as  nerve  or  spirits  were  concerned.  What  a 
wonderful  woman  she  was,  how  fine  a  horsewoman,  how 
loyal  a  friend !  It  did  him  good  to  see  her  happy.  It 
was  a  pity  she  had  never  married,  though  he  could  not 
imagine  her  in  such  a  situation,  and  he  smiled  at  the 
idea.  But  it  was  a  pity.  It  looked  as  if  Cecilia  would 
go  the  same  way,  though  he  could  imagine  her  married 
well  enough.  Two  suitors  in  a  year,  both  young,  both 
well-off,  both  well-looking  and  both  sent  about  their 
business — one  even  as  far  as  Spain !  The  girl  was  a 
fool. 

But,  meanwhile,  in  spite  of  Fullarton's  satisfaction, 
Lady  Eliza  had  not  got  much  good  out  of  her  day.  It 
was  when  she  was  crossing  the  road  that  she  felt  the 
mare  going  short ;  she  was  a  little  behind  her  companions, 
and,  by  the  time  she  had  pulled  up  and  dismounted, 
they  were  galloping  down  the  further  side  of  the  hedge 
which  bounded  it.  Though  Rocket  was  resting  her  near 
foreleg,  she  would  hardly  stand  for  a  moment;  with 
staring  eyes  and  head  in  the  air  she  looked  after  the 
vanishing  field,  and  Lady  Eliza  could  hardly  get  near 
her  to  examine  the  foot  which,  she  suspected,  had 
picked  up  a  stone.  She  twisted  round  and  round, 
chafing  and  snatching  at  the  reins;  .she  had  not  had 
enough  to  tire  her  in  the  least  degree,  and  her  blood  was 
up  at  the  unwonted  excitement  and  hot  with  the  love 
of  what  she  had  seen.  Lady  Eliza  had  given  orders  to 
the  groom  who  was  riding  Mayfly  to  keep  the  direction 


ROCKET  213 

of  the  hounds  in  his  eye  and  to  have  the  horse  waiting, 
as  near  to  where  they  finished  as  possible,  for  her  to 
ride  home;  as  Fullarton  had  said,  she  did  not  want  to 
give  Rocket  a  long  day,  and  she  meant,  unless  the  hounds 
were  actually  running,  to  leave  them  in  the  early  after- 
noon. Probably  he  was  not  far  off  at  this  moment ;  but, 
looking  up  and  down  the  road,  she  could  see  no  one,  not 
even  a  labourer  nor  a  tramp.  She  stood  exasperated 
by  the  short-sighted  stupidity  of  the  beast.  Again  and 
again  she  tried  to  take  the  foot  up,  but  Rocket  persisted 
in  swerving  whenever  she  came  near;  of  all  created 
beings,  a  horse  can  be  the  most  enraging. 

At  last  she  got  in  front  of  her,  and,  slipping  the  reins 
over  her  arm,  bent  down,  raising  the  foot  almost  by  main 
force ;  wedged  tightly  between  the  frog  and  the  shoe  was 
a  three-cornered  flint. 

She  straightened  herself  with  a  sigh,  for  she  felt  that 
there  was  no  chance  of  seeing  hounds  again  that  day. 
The  stone  was  firm  and  it  would  take  some  time  to 
dislodge  it.  She  led  the  mare  to  a  sign-post  which  stood 
at  the  roadside  with  all  the  officious,  pseudo-human  air 
of  such  objects,  and  tied  her  silly  head  short  to  it;  then, 
having  wedged  her  knee  between  her  own  knees,  after 
the  manner  of  smiths,  began  to  hammer  the  flint  with 
another  she  had  picked  up  on  a  stone-heap.  The  thing 
was  as  tightly  fixed  in  the  foot  as  if  it  had  grown  there. 

When,  at  last,  she  had  succeeded  in  getting  it  out,  her 
back  was  so  stiff  that  she  sat  down  on  a  milestone  which 
stood  close  by,  offering  information  to  the  world,  and 
began  to  clean  her  gloves,  which  her  occupation  had 
made  very  dirty.  There  was  no  use  in  galloping,  for 
the  whole  field  must  be  miles  away  by  this  time,  and  her 
only  chance  of  coming  up  with  it  was  the  possibility  of 
the  hounds  doubling  back  on  the  road.  She  determined 
to  stay  about  the  place  where  she  was  and  listen.  She 
mounted  from  her  mile-stone,  after  endless  frustrated 
attempts,  and  walked  Rocket  as  quietly  along  the  road 


ai4  THE  INTERLOPER 

as  she  could  prevail  upon  her  to  go ;  luck  was  undoubtedly 
against  her. 

Has  any  reader  of  mine  ever  ridden  in  the  pitch-dark, 
unwitting  that  there  is  another  horse  near,  and  been 
silently  apprized  of  the  fact  by  the  manner  of  going  of 
the  one  under  him?  If  so,  he  will  know  the  exact 
sensations  which  Rocket  communicated  to  her  rider. 
Lady  Eliza's  attention  was  centered  in  the  distance  in 
front  of  her,  but  she  became  aware,  through  the  mare, 
that  an  unseen  horse  was  not  far  off.  In  another 
moment,  she  saw  the  rough  pony  and  the  rough  old  man 
who  had  accosted  Cecilia  emerging  from  a  thicket  half- 
way up  the  slope  above  her. 

"What  ails  ye?"  he  enquired,  as  he  reached  the  road 
and  observed,  from  her  looks,  that  she  had  been  strug- 
gling with  something. 

"Have  you  seen  the  hounds?"  she  cried,  ignoring  his 
question. 

"I'm  awa'  hame,"  replied  he,  on  the  same  principle. 

"But  which  way  have  the  hounds  gone?  God  bless 
me !  can't  you  hear?"  she  cried,  raising  her  voice  louder. 

"Awa'  there!"  he  shouted,  waving  his  arm  in  the 
direction  in  which  she  was  going.  "  A'  saw  them  coming 
doon  again  as  a'  cam*  ower  the  brae;  they'll  be  doon 
across  the  road  by  this.  Awa'  ye  go  ! " 

Before  the  words  were  well  out  of  his  mouth  she  was 
off,  scattering  a  shower  of  liquid  mud  over  him. 

"Fiech  !  ye  auld  limmer  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  rubbed 
his  face,  watching  her  angrily  out  of  sight. 

As  she  came  to  a  bit  of  road  where  the  land  sloped  away 
gently  to  her  left,  she  saw  the  hounds — who,  as  Fullarton 
guessed,  had  changed  their  hare — in  the  fields  below 
her.  They  had  checked  again,  as  they  crossed  the  high- 
way, and  just  where  she  stood,  there  was  a  broken  rail 
in  the  fence.  She  could  tell  by  the  marks  in  the  mud 
that  they  had  gone  over  it  at  that  spot.  She  had  an 
excellent  chance  of  seeing  something  of  the  sport  yet, 


ROCKET  215 

for  Rocket  was  as  fresh  as  when  she  had  come  out  and  the 
land  between  her  and  the  hounds  was  all  good  grass. 

She  turned  her  at  the  broken  rail,  riding  quietly  down 
the  slope;  then,  once  on  the  level  ground  of  the  strath, 
she  set  her  going. 

She  put  field  after  field  behind  her;  for  though,  on  the 
flat,  she  could  not  see  far  ahead,  the  ground  was  wet  and 
the  hoof -prints  were  deep  enough  to  guide  her.  Rocket 
could  gallop,  and,  in  spite  of  her  recent  sins,  she  began  to 
think  that  she  liked  her  better  than  ever.  She  had 
bought  her  on  her  own  initiative,  having  taken  a  fancy 
to  her  at  a  sale,  and  had  ridden  her  for  more  than  a  year. 
It  was  from  her  back  that  she  had  first  seen  Gilbert 
Speid  at  Garviekirk.  Fullarton,  while  admitting  her 
good  looks,  had  not  been  enthusiastic,  and  Cecilia  had 
said  that  she  was  too  hot  and  tried  to  dissuade  her  from 
the  purchase;  she  remembered  that  she  had  been  very 
much  put  out  with  the  girl  at  the  time  and  had  asked  her 
whether  she  supposed  her  to  be  made  of  anything 
breakable.  Her  niece  had  said  "no,"  but  added  that 
she  probably  would  be  when  she  had  ridden  the  mare. 
Cecilia  could  be  vastly  impudent  when  she  chose;  her 
aunt  wondered  if  she  had  been  impudent  to  Fordyce. 
She  did  not  pursue  the  speculation,  for,  as  she  sailed 
through  an  open  gate,  she  found  herself  in  the  same  field 
with  the  tail  end  of  the  hunt  and  observed  that  some  of 
the  horses  looked  as  though  they  had  had  enough. 
There  must  have  been  a  sharp  burst,  she  suspected, 
while  she  was  struggling  with  Rocket  near  the  sign- 
post. Evidently  Fullarton  and  Cecilia  were  in  front. 

She  passed  the  stragglers,  and  saw  Robert's  old  black 
horse  labouring  heavily  in  a  strip  of  plough  on  the  near 
side  of  a  stout  thickset  hedge  which  hid  the  hounds  from 
her  view.  Rocket  saw  him  too  and  began  to  pull  like  a 
fiend ;  her  stall  at  Morphie  was  next  to  the  one  in  which 
he  invariably  stood  when  his  master  rode  there;  that 
being  frequently,  she  knew  him  as  well  as  she  did  her 


216  THE  INTERLOPER 

regular  stable  companions.  Lady  Eliza  let  her  go, 
rejoicing  to  have  recovered  the  ground  she  had  lost,  and 
to  be  likely,  after  all  her  difficulties,  to  see  the  end  of  her 
morning's  sport. 

Fullarton  was  making  for  a  thin  place  in  the  hedge,  for 
his  horse  was  getting  tired  and  he  was  a  heavy  man; 
besides  which,  he  knew  that  there  was  a  deep  drop  on 
the  other  side.  She  resolved  to  take  it  at  the  same  gap 
and  began  to  hold  Rocket  hard,  in  order  to  give  him 
time  to  get  over  before  she  was  upon  him. 

But  Rocket  did  not  understand.  The  wisdom  of  the 
old  hunter  was  not  hers,  and  she  only  knew  that  the 
woman  on  her  back  meant  to  baulk  her  of  the  glories  in 
front.  Her  rider  tried  to  pull  her  wide  of  the  black 
horse,  but  in  vain;  she  would  have  the  same  place. 
Robert  was  about  twenty  yards  from  her  when  he 
jumped  and  she  gathered  herself  together  for  a  rush. 
Lady  Eliza  could  not  hold  her. 

To  her  unutterable  horror,  just  as  the  mare  was  about 
to  take  off,  she  saw  that  Robert's  horse  had  stumbled 
in  landing  and  was  there,  in  front  of  her — below  her — 
recovering  his  feet  on  the  grass. 

With  an  effort  of  strength  which  those  who  witnessed 
it  never  forgot,  she  wrenched  Rocket's  head  aside, 
almost  in  mid-air.  As  they  fell  headlong,  she  had 
time,  before  her  senses  went,  to  see  that  she  had  attained 
her  object. 

For  Fullarton  stood,  unhurt,  not  five  paces  from 
where  she  lay. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE     BROKEN     LINK 

IN  an  upper  room,  whose  window  looked  into  a  mass  of 
bare  branches,  Lady  Eliza  lay  dying.  This  last  act  she 
was  accomplishing  with  a  deliberation  which  she  had 
given  to  nothing  else  in  her  life ;  for  it  was  two  days  since 
the  little  knot  of  horrified  sportsmen  had  lifted  her  on 
to  the  hurdle  which  someone  had  run  to  fetch  from  a 
neighbouring  farm.  Rocket,  unhurt  but  for  a  scratch 
or  two,  had  rolled  over  her  twice  and  she  had  not  fallen 
clear. 

The  hounds  had  just  killed  when  Cecilia,  summoned 
by  a  stranger  who  had  pursued  her  for  nearly  half  a  mile, 
came  galloping  back  to  find  her  unconscious  figure  laid 
upon  the  grass.  The  men  who  stood  round  made  way 
for  her  as  she  sprang  from  her  horse.  She  went  down 
on  her  knees  beside  her  aunt  and  took  one  of  her  helpless 
hands. 

"She  is  not  dead ? "  she  said,  looking  at  Fullarton  with 
wild  eyes. 

She  was  not  dead,  and,  but  for  a  few  bruises,  there  were 
no  marks  to  show  what  had  happened;  for  her  injuries 
were  internal,  and,  when,  at  last,  the  endless  journey 
home  was  over  and  the  two  doctors  from  Kaims  had 
made  their  examination,  Cecilia  had  heard  the  truth. 
The  plum-coloured  habit  might  be  put  away,  for  its 
disreputable  career  was  done  and  Lady  Eb'za  would  not 
need  it  again.  She  had  had  her  last  ride.  In  a  few 
days  she  would  come  out  of  the  house ;  but,  for  the  first 
time,  perhaps,  since  it  had  known  her,  she  would  pass 
the  stable  door  without  going  in. 

217 


2i8  THE  INTERLOPER 

She  had  been  carried  every  step  of  the  way  home, 
Cecilia  and  Fullarton  riding  one  on  either  side,  and, 
while  someone  had  gone  to  Kaims  for  a  doctor,  another 
had  pushed  his  tired  horse  forward  to  Morphie  to  get  a 
carriage.  But,  when  it  met  them  a  few  miles  from  the 
end  of  their  march,  it  had  been  found  impossible  to 
transfer  her  to  it,  for  consciousness  was  returning  and 
each  moment  was  agony.  The  men  had  expressed  their 
willingness  to  go  on,  and  Robert,  though  stiff  from  his 
fall,  had  taken  his  turn  manfully.  A  mattress  had  been 
spread  on  the  large  dining-room  table  and  on  it  they 
had  laid  the  hurdle  with  its  load.  Another  doctor  had 
been  brought  from  the  town  to  assist  his  partner  in  the 
examination  he  thought  fit  to  make  before  risking  the 
difficult  transport  upstairs.  Fullarton,  when  it  was 
over,  had  taken  one  of  the  men  apart.  It  might  be 
hours,  it  might  even  be  a  couple  of  days,  he  was  told. 
It  was  likely  that  there  would  be  suffering,  but  there 
would  be  no  pain  at  the  end,  he  thought.  The  spine, 
as  well  as  other  organs,  was  injured. 

And  so,  at  last,  they  had  carried  her  up  to  her  own 
room.  Cecilia  was  anxious  to  have  one  on  the  ground- 
floor  made  ready,  but  she  had  prayed  to  be  taken  to  the 
familiar  place,  and  the  doctors,  knowing  that  nothing 
could  avail  now,  one  way  or  the  other,  had  let  her  have 
her  will. 

She  had  never  had  any  doubts  about  her  own  con- 
dition. Before  Cecilia  nerved  herself  to  tell  her  the 
verdict  that  had  been  passed,  she  had  spoken. 

"Cecilia,  my  little  girl,"  she  had  said,  "what  will 
become  of  you?  What  will  you  do?  If  it  were  not 
for  you,  child,  God  knows  I  should  not  mind  going. 
But  I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

"If  I  could  only  go  with  you,"  whispered  Cecilia, 
laying  her  face  down  on  the  sheet. 

"Perhaps  I  was  wrong,"  continued  Lady  Eliza, 
"perhaps  I  have  done  harm.  I  knew  how  little  I  could 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  219 

leave  you;  there  were  others  who  would  have  taken 
you.  And  you  were  such  a  nice  little  girl,  Cecilia,  but 
so  thin  and  shy  .  .  .  and  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a 
long  time  ...  we  went  to  see  the  horses  .  .  . 
look,  child !  .  .  .  tell  James  to  come  here.  Can't 
you  see  that  the  mare's  head-collar  is  coming  off  ?  . 
Run,  Cecilia,  I  tell  you!" 

In  the  intervals  between  the  pain  and  delirium  which 
tortured  her  for  the  first  few  nights  and  days,  her 
one  cry  was  about  Cecilia — what  would  become  of 
Cecilia  ? 

Through  the  dark  hours  the  girl  sat  soothing  her  and 
holding  the  feverish  hand  as  she  listened  to  the  rambling 
talk.  Now  she  was  with  the  horses,  now  back  in  the  old 
days  when  her  brother  was  alive,  now  talking  to  Fullar- 
ton,  now  straying  among  the  events  of  the  past  months ; 
but  always  returning  again  to  what  weighed  on  her 
mind,  Cecilia's  future.  Occasionally  she  would  speak 
to  her  as  though  she  were  Fullarton,  or  Fordyce,  or 
even  James  the  groom.  Worst  of  all  were  the  times 
when  her  pain  was  almost  more  than  she  could  bear. 

A  woman  had  been  got  from  the  town  to  help  in 
nursing  her,  a  good  enough  soul,  but,  with  one  of  those 
strange  whims  which  torment  the  sick,  Lady  Eliza 
could  not  endure  her  in  the  room,  and  she  sat  in  the 
dressing-room,  waiting  to  do  anything  that  was  wanted. 
Trained  nurses  were  unknown  outside  hospitals  in  those 
days. 

Robert  had  remained  all  night  at  Morphie  after  the 
accident  and  had  sat  by  the  bedside  while  she  was  con- 
scious of  his  presence. 

"I  owe  you  my  life,"  he  said  to  her;  "oh,  Eliza !  why 
did  you  do  that?  My  worthless  existence  could  have 
so  well  been  spared  !" 

He  went  home  in  the  morning,  to  return  again  later, 
and  Cecilia,  who  had  been  resting,  went  back  to  her  post. 
The  doctor  now  said  that  his  patient  might  linger  for 


220  THE  INTERLOPER 

days  and  departed  to  his  business  in  Kaims  for  a  few 
hours. 

"Robert!"  said  Lady  Eliza,  suddenly. 

"It  is  I,  ma'am;  here  I  am,"  answered  the  girl,  laying 
her  fingers  upon  her  arm;  there  was  no  recognition  in 
the  eyes  which  stared,  with  unnatural  brilliance,  into 
her  face. 

"Robert,"  said  the  voice  from  the  bed,  "I  can  never 
go  to  Whanland;  you  shall  not  try  to  take  me  there 
.  .  .  she  is  not  there — I  know  that  very  well — she 

is  out  on  the  sands — dead  and  buried  under  the  sand 

But  she  can't  marry  him.  ...  I  could  never  see 
her  if  she  went  to  Whanland.  .  .  .  How  can  I  part 
with  her  ?  Cecilia,  you  will  not  go  ? " 

"Here  I  am,  dearest  aunt,  here  I  am."  She  leaned 
over  Lady  Eliza.  "You  can  see  me;  I  am  close  to  you." 

"Is  that  impostor  gone?"  asked  Lady  Eliza. 

"Yes,  yes,  he  has  gone,"  answered  Cecilia,  in  a  choked 
voice. 

A  look  came  into  Lady  Eliza's  face  as  though  her  true 
mind  were  battling,  like  a  swimmer,  with  the  waves  of 
delirium. 

"I  have  never  told  Cecilia  that  he  is  Fullarton's  son," 
she  said,  "I  have  never  told  anyone.  .  .  .  She  was 
a  bad  woman — she  has  taken  him  from  me  and  now  her 
son  will  take  my  little  girl.  .  .  .  Mr.  Speid,  your 
face  is  cut — come  away — come  away.  Cecilia,  we  will 
go  to  the  house.  .  .  .  But  that  is  Fullarton  standing 
there.  Robert,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you.  Robert, 
you  know  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  like  that !  Dear 
Robert,  have  you  forgiven  me  ?  .  .  .  But  what  can 
I  do  about  my  little  girl?  What  can  I  do  for  her, 
Fullarton?" 

She  held  Cecilia's  fingers  convulsively.  The  girl  kept 
her  hand  closed  round  the  feeble  one  on  the  bed-cover, 
as  though  she  would  put  her  own  life  and  strength  into 
it  with  her  grasp ;  she  fancied  sometimes  that  it  quieted 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  221 

the  sick  woman  in  some  strange  way.  She  sat  behind 
the  curtain  like  a  stone;  there  was  little  time  to  think 
over  what  she  had  just  heard,  for  the  wheels  of  the 
doctor's  gig  were  sounding  in  the  avenue  and  she  must 
collect  herself  to  meet  him.  He  was  to  stay  for  the 
night.  But  now  everything  that  had  been  dark  was 
plain  to  her.  Her  lover  was  Fullarton's  son  !  Down 
to  the  very  depths  she  saw  into  her  aunt's  heart,  and 
tears,  as  hot  as  any  she  had  shed  for  her  own  griefs,  fell 
from  her  eyes. 

"Thank  God,  I  did  what  I  could  for  her,"  she  said. 

The  night  that  followed  was  quieter  than  the  one 
preceding  it  and  she  sat  up,  having  had  a  long  rest, 
insisting  that  the  doctor  should  go  to  bed;  while  her 
aunt's  mind  ran  on  things  which  were  for  her  ears  alone, 
she  did  not  wish  for  his  presence.  Towards  morning 
he  came  in  and  forced  her  to  leave  the  bedside,  and,  worn 
out,  she  slept  on  till  it  was  almost  noon.  She  awoke  to 
find  him  standing  over  her. 

"Lady  Eliza  is  conscious,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  not 
suffering — at  least,  not  in  body.  But  she  is  very  uneasy 
and  anxious  to  see  you.  I  fancy  there  is  something  on 
her  mind.  Do  what  you  can  to  soothe  her,  Miss  Rae- 
burn,  for  I  doubt  if  she  will  last  the  day;  all  we  can  hope 
for  her  now  is  an  easy  death." 

Lady  Eliza  lay  with  her  eyes  closed ;  as  Cecilia  entered 
she  opened  them  and  smiled.  She  went  to  the  bed. 

"How  tired  you  look,"  said  Lady  Eliza.  "It  will 
soon  be  over,  my  dear,  and  we  shall  have  parted  at  last. 
Don't  cry,  child.  What  a  good  girl  you  have  been ! 
Ah,  my  dear,  I  could  die  happy  if  it  were  not  for  you. 
I  have  nothing  to  leave  you  but  a  few  pounds  a  year  and 
my  own  belongings  and  the  horses.  Morphie  will  go 
to  relations  I  have  never  seen.  What  am  I  to  do  for 
you  ?  What  are  you  to  do  ?  Oh,  Cecilia  !  I  should  have 
laid  by  more.  But  I  never  thought  of  this — of  dying 
like  this — and  I  looked  to  your  marrying.  I  have  been 


222  THE  INTERLOPER 

a  bad  friend  to  you — I  see  that  now  that  I  come  to  lie 
here." 

"If  you  speak  in  that  way  you  will  break  my  heart," 
said  Cecilia,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Come  close;  come  where  I  can  see  you.  You  must 
make  me  a  promise,"  said  Lady  Eliza;  "you  must 
promise  me  that  you  will  marry.  Crauford  Fordyce 
will  come  back — I  know  that  he  will,  for  Fullarton  has 
told  me  so.  I  said  it  was  useless,  but  that  is  different 
now.  Cecilia,  I  can't  leave  you  like  this,  with  no  one  to 
protect  you  and  no  money — promise  me  when  he  comes 
that  you  will  say  yes." 

"Oh,  aunt!  oh,  dear  aunt!"  cried  Cecilia.  "Oh,  not 
that,  not  that!" 

"Promise  me,"  urged  Lady  Eliza. 

"Oh,  anything  but  that — do  not  ask  me  that !  There 
is  only  one  man  in  the  world  I  can  ever  love.  It  is  the 
same  now  as  on  the  day  he  left." 

"Love  is  not  for  everybody,"  said  Lady  Eliza,  slowly. 
"Some  have  to  do  without  it  all  their  lives." 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  for  a  little  time. 

"The  world  looks  different  now,"  began  Lady  Eliza 
again.  "  I  don't  know  if  I  was  right  to  do  as  I  did  about 
Gilbert  Sp — about  Whanland.  I  am  a  wicked  woman, 
my  dear,  and  I  cannot  forgive — but  you  don't  know 
about  that." 

"If  he  comes  back,  aunt — if  he  comes  back?" 

"But  you  cannot  wait  all  your  life  for  that.  He  is 
gone  and  he  has  said  he  will  not  come  back.  Put  that 
away  from  you;  I  am  thinking  only  of  you — believe  me, 
my  darling.  I  beg  of  you,  Cecilia,  I  pray  you.  You 
know  I  shall  never  be  able  to  ask  anything  again,  soon." 

"Give  me  time,"  she  sobbed,  terribly  moved. 

"In  a  year,  Cecilia — in  a  year?" 

Cecilia  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  Outside,  over 
the  bare  boughs,  some  pigeons  from  the  dovecote  were 
whirling  in  the  air.  Her  heart  was  tortured  within  her. 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  223 

Crauford  was  almost  abhorrent  to  her,  but  it  seemed  as 
though  the  relentless  driving  of  fate  were  forcing  her 
towards  him.  She  saw  no  escape.  Why  had  Gilbert 
gone !  His  letter  had  made  no  mention  of  Fullarton's 
name,  and  he  had  only  written  that  he  could  not  ask  her 
to  share  with  him  a  position  which,  as  he  now  knew, 
was  thoroughly  understood  by  the  world  and  which  she 
would  find  unbearable.  In  his  honesty,  he  had  said 
nothing  that  should  make  her  think  of  him  as  anything 
but  a  bygone  episode  in  her  life,  no  vow  of  love,  none  of 
remembrance.  Even  if  she  knew  where  he  had  gone 
she  could  not  appeal  to  him  after  that.  She  looked 
back  at  Lady  Eliza's  face  on  the  pillow,  now  so  white, 
with  the  shadow  of  coming  death  traced  on  it.  She 
had  thought  that  she  had  given  up  all  to  buy  her  peace, 
but  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  still  a  higher  price  to  be 
paid.  As  she  thought  of  Crauford,  of  his  dull  vanity, 
of  his  slow  perceptions,  of  his  all-sufficing  egotism,  she 
shuddered.  His  personality  was  odious  to  her.  She 
hated  his  heavy,  smooth,  coarse  face  and  his  heavier 
manner,  never  so  hateful  as  when  he  deemed  himself 
most  pleasant.  She  must  think  of  herself,  not  as  a 
woman  with  a  soul  and  a  body,  but  as  a  dead  thing  that 
can  neither  feel  nor  hope.  What  mattered  it  what 
became  of  her  now?  She  had  lost  all,  absolutely  all. 
It  only  remained  for  her  to  secure  a  quiet  end  to  the  one 
creature  left  her  for  a  pitiful  few  hours. 

She  went  back  and  stood  by  the  pillow.  The  dumb 
question  that  met  her  touched  her  to  the  heart. 

"I  will  promise  what  you  wish,"  she  said,  steadily. 
"  In  a  year  I  will  marry  him  if  he  asks  me.  But  if,  if" — 
she  faltered  for  a  moment  and  turned  away — "not  if 
Gilbert  Speid  comes  back.  Aunt,  tell  me  that  I  have 
made  you  happy!" 

"I  can  rest  now,"  said  Lady  Eliza. 

In  spite  of  the  predictions  of  the  doctor,  the  days  went 
on  and  still  she  lingered,  steadily  losing  strength,  but 


224  THE  INTERLOPER 

with  a  mind  at  ease  and  a  simple  acceptance  of  her  case. 
She  had  not  cared  for  Crauford,  but  he  would  stand 
between  Cecilia  and  a  life  of  poverty,  of  even  possible 
hardship,  and  she  knew  that  his  faults  were  those  that 
could  only  injure  himself.  He  would  never  be  unkind 
to  his  wife,  she  felt  sure.  The  world  was  too  bad  a 
place  for  a  beautiful  young  woman  to  stand  alone  in, 
and  Gilbert  would  not  come  back.  Why  should  he 
when  the  causes  of  his  going  could  not  be  altered? 
Now,  lying  at  the  gate  of  another  life,  this  one,  as  she 
said,  looked  different.  Cecilia  had  told  her,  months  ago, 
that  she  could  never  marry  Speid,  but  her  vision  had 
cleared  enough  to  show  her  that  she  should  not  have 
believed  her.  However,  he  was  gone. 

Her  mind  was  generally  clear  now :  bouts  of  pain  there 
were,  and,  at  night,  hours  of  wandering  talk;  but  her 
days  were  calm,  and,  as  life  lost  its  grip,  suffering  was 
loosening  its  hold  too. 

It  was  late  one  night  when  Cecilia,  grudging  every 
moment  spent  away  from  the  bedside,  saw  that  a  change 
had  come  over  her.  She  had  been  sleeping,  more  the 
sleep  of  exhaustion  than  of  rest,  and,  as  she  awoke,  the 
girl  knew  that  their  parting  must  be  near.  The  doctor 
was  due  at  any  moment,  for  he  slept  at  Morphie  every 
night,  going  to  his  other  patients  in  the  day;  he  was 
a  hard-worked  man.  She  sat  listening  for  his  coming. 

The  house  was  very  quiet  as  she  heard  his  wheels  roll 
into  the  courtyard.  His  answer  to  her  question  was 
the  one  she  expected;  there  was  little  time  left.  She 
ran  out  to  the  stable  herself  and  sent  a  man  on  horseback 
to  Fullarton. 

"Lose  no  time,"  she  said,  as  she  saw  him  turn  away. 

When  she  re-entered  the  room  the  doctor  looked  at  her 
with  meaning  eyes. 

"I  feel  very  weak,"  said  Lady  Eliza,  "don't  go  far 
from  me,  my  dear.  Cecilia,  is  Fullarton  here?" 

"I  have  sent  for  him." 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  225 

She  took  her  seat  again  within  sight  of  the  eyes  that 
always  sought  her  own;  they  were  calm  now,  and  she 
knew  that  the  chain  which  had  held  the  passing  soul 
back  from  peace  was  broken,  for  she  had  broken  it  with 
her  own  hand.  Whatever  the  consequences,  whatever 
she  might  be  called  upon  to  go  through,  she  was  glad. 
When  the  time  should  come  to  face  the  cost,  she  would 
find  courage  for  it. 

"You  do  not  wish  to  see  the  minister  again?"  she 
asked,  in  a  little  time.  He  had  visited  Lady  Eliza  once. 

"There  is  no  more  to  say.  Cecilia,  do  you  think  I 
shall  go  before  Fullarton  comes?" 

"I  have  told  them  to  be  quick.  They  have  taken 
Rocket." 

"Oh — Rocket,  I  shall  not  see  Rocket  again.  She 
was  a  good  mare.  But  I  must  not  think  of  that  now; 
perhaps  I  have  thought  too  much  of  horses." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  since  her  messenger  had  gone 
when  Cecilia  looked  anxiously  at  the  clock.  The  doctor 
had  given  Lady  Eliza  what  stimulant  she  could  swallow 
to  keep  her  alive  till  Fullarton  should  come,  and,  though 
she  could  scarcely  turn  her  head,  her  dying  ears  were 
listening  for  his  step  at  the  door.  It  came  at  last. 

"I  am  here,  my  lady,"  he  whispered,  as  he  took 
Cecilia's  place. 

"I  have  been  wearying  for  you,  Robert,"  she  said, 
"it  is  time  to  say  good-bye.  You  have  been  good  to 
me." 

He  slipped  his  arm  under  the  pillow  and  raised  her  till 
her  head  leaned  against  his  shoulder.  She  was  past 
feeling  pain.  Instead  of  the  wig  she  had  always  insisted 
upon  wearing,  a  few  light  locks  of  her  own  grey  hair 
strayed  on  her  forehead  from  under  the  lace-edged  scarf 
Cecilia  had  put  round  her,  softening  her  face.  She 
looked  strangely  young. 

Robert  could  not  speak. 

"Eliza "  he  began,  but  his  voice  broke. 


226  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Be  good  to  Cecilia,  Fullarton.     My  little  girl — if  I 

had  done  differently " 

Cecilia  rose  from  her  knees  and  leaned  over  Fullarton 

to  kiss  her. 

"Aunt,  I  have  promised.     All  will  be  well  with  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.     I  am  happy.     Robert — 

With  an  effort  she  raised  her  hand,  whiter,   more 

fragile  than  when  he  had  admired  it  as  they  sat  in  the 

garden ;  even  in  her  death  she  remembered  that  moment. 

And,  as,  for  the  first  and  last  time  in  her  life,  he  laid  his 

lips  upon  it,  the  light  in  her  eyes  went  out. 

****** 

It  was  nearing  sunrise  when  he  left  Cecilia  in  the  dark 
house,  and  daylight  was  beginning  to  look  blue  through 
the  clinks  of  the  shutter  as  it  met  the  shine  of  the 
candles. 

"I  will  come  back  to-day,"  he  said;  "there  will  be  a 
great  many  things  I  must  help  you  about.  To-morrow 
you  must  come  to  Fullarton." 

"And  leave  her?"  she  exclaimed. 

"If  her  friendship  for  me  had  been  less,"  said  he,  as 
they  parted,  "you  and  I  would  have  been  happier 
to-day.  My  God  !  what  a  sacrifice  ! " 

"Do  you  call  that  friendship?"  she  cried,  facing  him, 
straight  and  white  in  the  dimness  of  the  hall.  "Is  that 
what  you  call  friendship?  Mr.  Fullarton,  have  you 

never  understood?" 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Fullarton  rode  home  in  the  breaking  morning,  his  long 
coat  buttoned  high  round  his  neck.  It  was  chilly  and 
the  new  day  was  rising  on  a  world  poor  and  grey,  a 
world  which,  yesterday,  had  held  more  than  he  under- 
stood, and  to-day,  would  hold  less  than  he  needed. 
His  loss  was  heavy  on  him  and  he  knew  that  he  would 
feel  it  more  each  hour.  But  what  bore  him  down  was 
the  tardy  understanding  of  what  he  had  done  when  he 
forged  the  link  just  broken.  He  had  accepted  a  life  as 


THE  BROKEN  LINK  227 

a  gift,  without  thanks  and  without  the  knowledge  of 
what  he  did,  for  he  had  been  too  intent  upon  himself 
to  see  the  proportions  of  anything. 

Now  only  was  he  to  realise  how  much  she  had  lightened 
for  him  the  burden  of  his  barren  life.  How  often  he  had 
seen  in  her  face  the  forgiveness  of  his  ungracious  words, 
the  condoning  of  his  little  selfishness,  how  often  known 
her  patience  with  his  ill-humours !  She,  who  was  so 
impatient,  had  she  ever  been  ungentle  with  him? 
Once  only.  It  was  not  so  many  months  since  she  had 
asked  his  pardon  for  it  as  they  sat  on  the  garden  bench. 
With  what  magnanimity  he  had  forgiven  her ! 

He  entered  the  house  and  sat  down  at  the  pale  fire 
which  a  housemaid  had  just  lit.  His  heart  was  too 
worn,  too  numb,  too  old  for  tears;  it  could  only  ache. 
His  butler,  an  Englishman  who  had  been  with  him 
twenty  years,  came  in  and  put  some  wine  on  the  table, 
but  he  did  not  turn  his  head;  the  man  poured  out  a 
glass  and  brought  it  to  him. 

"It  will  do  you  good,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  your  bed  is 
ready  upstairs.  You  should  try  to  sleep,  sir,  if  you  are 
going  to  see  her  ladyship  again  to-day." 

Robert  looked  up. 

"Her  ladyship  is  dead,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CECILIA    SEES    THE    WILD    GEESE 

THERE  are  some  periods  in  life  when  the  heart,  from 
very  excess  of  misery,  finds  a  spurious  relief;  when  pain 
has  so  dulled  the  nerves,  that,  hoping  nothing,  fearing 
nothing,  we  sink  into  an  endurance  that  is  not  far  from 
peace. 

Thus  it  was  with  Cecilia  Raeburn.  When  the  vault 
in  the  little  cemetery  between  Morphie  House  and 
Morphie  Kirk  had  been  closed  over  Lady  Eliza,  Robert 
brought  her  and  all  her  belongings  to  Fullarton,  in 
accordance  with  a  promise  he  had  made  at  the  bedside 
of  his  friend.  She  went  with  him  passively,  once  that 
the  coffin  had  been  taken  away,  for  the  house,  after  the 
gloom  and  silence  of  its  drawn  blinds,  was  beginning  to 
resume  its  original  look  and  the  sight  hurt  her.  She 
had  been  uprooted  many  times  since  her  early  youth, 
and,  like  a  wayfarer,  she  must  take  the  road  again. 
Her  last  rest  had  continued  for  fourteen  happy  years 
whose  happiness  made  it  all  the  harder  to  look  forward. 
Her  next  would  be  Fullarton,  and,  after  that,  possibly 
— probably,  wherever  the  solid  heir  to  the  house  of 
Fordyce  should  pitch  his  tent.  But  a  year  was  a 
respite,  for  who  knew  what  might  happen  in  a  year? 
He  might  transfer  his  unwelcome  attentions  to  someone 
else,  or  death,  even,  might  step  in  to  save  her;  she  had 
just  seen  how  near  he  could  creep  without  sign  or 
warning.  She  would  not  look  forward,  but,  in  her 
secret  heart,  she  could  not  banish  the  faint  hope  that 
Gilbert  might  come  back. 

228 


CECILIA  SEES  THE  WILD  GEESE         229 

All  the  dead  woman's  possessions  which  had  passed  to 
herself  she  had  brought  to  Fullarton.  Necessity  had 
compelled  her  to  sell  the  furniture  and  the  horses;  and 
the  sight  of  the  former  being  carried  away  from  its 
familiar  place  was  softened  to  her  by  the  fact  that 
Robert  had  bought  it  all.  He  had  also  secured  Rocket ; 
and,  although  the  mare's  headlong  impatience  had  dug 
her  owner's  grave,  she  had  been  so  much  loved  by 
Lady  Eliza  that  Cecilia  could  scarce  have  endured  to 
think  of  her  in  strange  hands.  She  had  wished  to  give 
her  to  Fullarton,  but  he,  knowing  that  each  pound  must 
be  of  importance  to  her,  had  refused  to  accept  the  gift. 
Rocket  now  stood  in  a  stall  next  to  the  black  horse  she 
had  followed  with  such  fatal  haste. 

Among  the  many  things  for  which  Cecilia  was  grateful 
to  Fullarton,  not  the  least  was  the  consideration  which 
moved  him  to  forbid  Crauford  the  house.  He  was  aware 
that  his  nephew  meant  to  recommence  his  suit,  and 
though,  knowing  her  and  being  ignorant  of  Lady  Eliza's 
dying  desire,  he  did  not  think  she  would  accept  him  now 
more  than  before,  he  would  not  allow  her  to  be  annoyed. 
Some  weeks  after  the  funeral  Fordyce  had  proposed  him- 
self as  his  uncle's  guest  for  a  few  days  and  been  told  that, 
for  some  time  to  come,  it  would  be  inconvenient  to 
receive  him. 

During  the  fierce  ordeal  of  her  last  days  at  Morphie 
Cecilia  had  had  little  time  to  turn  over  in  her  mind  the 
startling  truth  which  her  aunt,  in  her  delirious  state,  had 
revealed;  but  now,  as  she  sat  in  the  long  spring  even- 
ings, silent  while  Fullarton  read,  she  would  look  earnestly 
at  him  to  discover,  if  she  might,  some  resemblance  to  his 
son.  Occasionally  she  fancied  she  could  trace  it,  scarcely 
in  feature,  but  in  voice  and  figure.  Whether  rightly  or 
wrongly,  what  she  had  learned  drew  her  closer  to  him, 
and  she  took  a  sad  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  her 
lover's  father  was,  till  she  could  settle  some  way  of  exist- 
ence, playing  father  to  her  too.  She  loved  him  because 


230  THE  INTERLOPER 

he  had  been  so  much  to  Lady  Eliza  and  because  she 
now  saw  how  profoundly  the  revelation  of  the  part  he 
had  borne  in  her  life  moved  him.  He  had  become  sad- 
der, more  cynical,  more  impervious  to  outer  influence, 
but  she  knew  what  was  making  him  so  and  loved  him  for 
the  knowledge.  Only  on  one  point  did  she  judge  him 
hardly,  and  that  was  for  the  entire  lack  of  interest  or 
sympathy  he  had  shown  to  Gilbert;  not  realising  what 
havoc  had  been  wrought  in  his  life  by  his  birth  nor  giving 
due  weight  to  the  fact  that,  until  a  year  previously,  he 
had  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  him.  His  intense 
desire  had  been  to  bury  his  past — but  for  one  adored 
memory — as  deep  as  the  bottomless  pit,  and  Gilbert's 
return  had  undone  the  work  of  years.  He  could  never 
look  at  him  without  the  remembrance  of  what  he  had 
cost.  He  did  not  know  if  his  son  were  aware  of  the  bond 
between  them,  and  he  was  determined  to  check  any 
approach,  however  small,  which  might  come  of  his 
knowledge  by  an  unchangeable  indifference ;  though  he 
could  not  banish  him,  at  least  he  would  ignore  him  as 
much  as  was  consistent  with  civility  of  a  purely  formal 
kind.  Lady  Eliza  had  understood  this  and  it  had 
deepened  her  prejudice;  what  small  attention  she  had 
given  to  Speid  had  been  the  outcome  of  her  desire  that 
Robert  should  appreciate  her  absolute  neutrality;  that 
he  should  know  she  treated  him  as  she  would  treat  any 
presentable  young  man  who  should  become  her  neigh- 
bour; with  neither  hostility  nor  special  encouragement. 
And  so  Cecilia  stayed  on  at  Fullarton,  silenced  by 
Robert  when  she  made  any  mention  of  leaving  it,  until 
spring  merged  into  summer  and  Crauford  Fordyce,  mak- 
ing Barclay's  house  the  base  of  his  operations,  knocked 
once  more  at  his  uncle's  door  in  the  propitious  character 
of  wooer.  He  returned  in  the  evening  to  his  friend  with 
the  news  that  Miss  Raeburn  had  refused  to  listen  to  his 
proposal:  while  Lady  Eliza  had  not  been  a  year  in  her 
grave,  she  said,  she  had  no  wish  to  think  of  marrying. 


23 1 

To  his  emphatic  assurance  that  he  would  return  when 
that  period  should  be  over  she  had  made  no  reply,  and, 
as  they  parted  and  he  reiterated  his  intention,  she  had 
told  him  to  hope  for  nothing. 

"I  know  what  women  are  at  when  they  say  that!" 
exclaimed  Barclay;  "there  is  nothing  like  perseverance, 
Fordyce.  If  you  don't  get  her  next  time  you  may  laugh 
at  me  for  a  fool.  She  got  nothing  by  her  ladyship's 
death,  and  she  will  find  out  what  that  means  when  she 
leaves  Fullarton.  Keep  up  heart  and  trust  Alexander 
Barclay." 

Crauford's  visit  shook  Cecilia  out  of  the  surface  com- 
posure that  her  unmolested  life  had  induced,  and  brought 
home  to  her  the  truth  that  every  day  was  lessening  her 
chance  of  escape.  Apparently,  his  mind  was  the  same, 
and,  meanwhile,  no  word  of  the  man  she  would  never 
cease  to  love  came  to  her  from  any  source.  Once  she  had 
gone  to  Kaims  and  paid  a  visit  to  the  Miss  Robertsons, 
hoping  for  news  of  him,  however  meagre,  but  she  had 
been  stiffly  received.  A  woman  who  had  driven  away 
Gilbert  Speid  by  her  cold  refusal  was  scarcely  a  guest 
appreciated  by  Miss  Hersey,  nor  was  the  old  lady  one  to 
detect  anything  showing  another  side  of  the  situation. 
She  looked  with  some  disdain  upon  her  visitor  and  longed 
very  heartily  to  assure  her  that  such  a  fine  young  fellow 
as  her  kinsman  was  not  likely  to  go  solitary  about  the 
world  for  lack  of  a  wife.  She  reported  the  visit  duly 
when  she  wrote  to  him,  but  without  comment. 

When  winter  came  hope  died  in  Cecilia ;  there  was  no 
one  to  stay  her  up,  no  one  to  whom  she  could  go  for  a 
touch  of  sympathy,  and,  should  Fordyce  carry  out  his 
threat  of  returning  in  January,  the  time  would  have 
come  when  she  must  redeem  her  word.  She  had  felt  the 
strength  of  a  lion  when  she  saw  her  promise  bring  con- 
tent to  Lady  Eliza;  now,  her  heart  was  beginning  to  fail. 
But,  fail  or  not,  there  was  but  one  end  to  it. 

Sometimes  she  would  go  out  alone  and  walk  through 


232  THE  INTERLOPER 

the  wet  fields  toward  the  river — for  the  higher  reaches  of 
the  Lour  were  almost  within  sight  of  the  windows  of 
Fullarton — and  look  at  its  waters  rolling  seaward  past 
that  bit  of  country  which  had  held  so  much  for  her.  She 
loved  it  the  more  fiercely  for  the  thought  that  she  must 
soon  turn  her  back  on  it.  Once,  a  skein  of  wild  geese 
passed  over  her  head  on  their  flight  to  the  tidal  marshes 
beyond  Kaims,  and  the  far-away  scream  in  the  air  held 
her  spellbound.  High  up,  pushing  their  way  to  the  sea, 
their  necks  outstretched  as  though  drawn  by  a  magnet 
to  their  goal,  they  held  on  their  course;  and  their  cry 
rang  with  the  voice  of  the  north — the  voice  of  the  soul 
of  the  coast.  She  leaned  her  head  against  a  tree  and 
wept  unrestrainedly  with  the  relief  of  one  not  commonly 
given  to  tears.  Once  more,  she  told  herself,  before  leav- 
ing Fullarton,  she  would  ride  to  Morphie  and  look  at  the 
old  house  from  the  road;  so  far,  she  had  never  had  cour- 
age to  turn  her  horse  in  that  direction,  though  she  now 
rode  almost  daily.  Once,  too,  she  would  go  and  stand  by 
the  Lour  bridge  where  she  could  see  the  white  walls  of 
Whanland. 

While  Cecilia,  at  Fullarton,  was  trying  to  nerve  herself 
to  the  part  she  must  play,  Crauford,  at  Fordyce,  was 
spending  a  more  peaceful  time  than  he  had  experienced 
since  he  first  confided  the  state  of  his  heart  to  his  family. 
Lady  Fordyce 's  suspicions  were  lulled  by  his  demeanour 
and  by  a  fact,  which,  to  a  person  of  more  acumen,  would 
have  been  alarming;  namely,  that  he  never,  by  any 
chance,  mentioned  Miss  Raeburn's  name  nor  the  name 
of  anything  connected  with  her.  He  had  said  nothing 
about  his  fruitless  visit  to  Barclay,  and  Fullarton,  whose 
inclination  it  was  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  did  not  supple- 
ment the  omission.  His  nephew  no  longer  honoured 
him  with  his  confidence  and  he  had  no  desire  to  provoke 
another  correspondence  with  his  sister.  To  Cecilia  also 
he  said  nothing;  while  he  realised  that  to  settle  herself 
so  well  would  be  a  good  thing  from  a  worldly  point  of 


CECILIA  SEES  THE  WILD  GEESE         233 

view,  his  contempt  for  Crauford  gave  him  a  liberal  notion 
of  her  feelings  when  she  refused  him.  He  knew  what 
had  happened,  but  he  dismissed  the  episode  without 
comment. 

Autumn  had  again  brought  Lady  Maria  Milwright  as  a 
guest  to  Fordyce,  and  the  prodigal  son,  having  tempo- 
rarily finished  with  his  husks  and  being  inwardly  stayed 
up  by  Cecilia's  half-implied  permission  to  address  her 
again,  had  time  for  the  distractions  of  home  life.  For- 
dyce Castle  blossomed  as  the  rose,  and  Mary  and  Agneta 
would,  no  doubt,  have  done  the  same  thing,  had  it  not 
been  a  little  late  for  such  an  experience.  Lady  Fordyce 
went  so  far  as  to  give  a  dinner-party  and  a  school  feast. 

Crauford  kept  his  own  counsel  strictly,  and,  though  he 
had  the  honesty  to  make  no  advances  to  Lady  Maria,  her 
appreciation  of  him  made  her  an  agreeable  companion; 
his  sisters  looked  on  with  keen  interest  and  Agneta  was 
emboldened  to  congratulate  him  on  his  return  to  the 
paths  of  wisdom. 

"Admit,  brother,"  she  began  one  day  as  they  found 
themselves  alone  together,  "that  Lady  Maria  is  vastly 
superior  to  Miss  Raeburn,  after  all." 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  he,  taken  aback. 

"  But  why  is  it  nonsense  ?"  continued  his  sister,  "what 
is  amiss  with  Lady  Maria?" 

"Her  face,"  said  Crauford  shortly. 

"  But  Mama  says  it  is  absurd  to  think  of  that;  I  heard 
her  say  so  to  Papa — quite  lately  too." 

"And  what  did  he  answer?"  enquired  her  brother, 
thinking  of  a  sentiment  in  the  memorable  letter  Sir 
Thomas  had  written  him. 

"I  think  he  said  that  he  supposed  all  cats  were  grey 
in  the  dark.  He  could  not  quite  understood  what 
Mama  said ;  it  seemed  such  an  odd  answer,  for  they  had 
not  been  talking  about  cats.  It  made  her  rather  angry 
too." 

Crauford  said  nothing  and  the  two  walked  on.     They 


THE  INTERLOPER 

were  on  the  lawn,  watching  Sir  Thomas  and  the  local 
minister  playing  bowls  in  the  shower  of  dead  horse- 
chestnut  leaves,  which  fell,  periodically,  like  so  many 
yellow  fans,  to  the  ground. 

"Did  Miss  Raeburn  play  the  harp?"  asked  Agneta,  at 
last. 

" No;  at  least  I  have  never  heard  her,"  he  replied. 

" Lady  Maria  does ;   did  she  sing?" 

"No." 

"Lady  Maria  sings.  She  has  had  lessons  from  an 
Italian  master;  I  saw  a  little  drawing  of  him  that  is  in 
her  work-box.  What  could  Miss  Raeburn  do  that  you 
thought  her  so  wonderful?"  persisted  Agneta. 

Crauford  knit  his  brows.  Cecilia's  general  mastery  of 
life  was  difficult  to  explain,  nor,  indeed,  did  he  quite 
understand  it  himself. 

"She  is  so — so  ladylike,"  he  said. 

"Why  do  you  always  say  that?  Miss  Raeburn  was 
only  a  companion;  now  Lady  Maria  has  a  title." 

People  were  much  more  outwardly  snobbish  in  those 
days  than  they  are  now  that  the  disease  has  become 
internal;  at  present,  it  would  scarcely  be  possible  to 
make  such  a  speech  and  survive  it, 

"You  know  nothing  about  it.  Miss  Raeburn  was 
Lady  Eliza's  relation  and  she  called  her  her  niece.  And 
why  do  you  say  'was'?  She  is  not  dead." 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  suppose,  because  we  need  not  trouble 
about  her  any  more.  Do  tell  me  what  she  was  like, 
Crauford,  I  have  so  often  wanted  to  know.  Do,  do, 
dear  Crauford !" 

"If  I  tell  you  a  great  many  things,  will  you  promise 
to  keep  them  entirely  to  yourself?"  he  enquired,  in  an 
access  of  gracious  elder  brotherhood.  He  longed  for  a 
confidant. 

"Oh,  yes !  yes !"  cried  Agneta,  running  her  arm  through 
his,  "I  will  not  even  tell  Mary." 

"I  think  she  has  seen  the  folly  of  her  refusal,"  said  he, 


CECILIA  SEES  THE  WILD  GEESE         235 

gravely.  "I  saw  her  a  few  weeks  ago;  in  fact,  I 
renewed  my  offer,  but  she  said  she  could  not  listen 
to  me  so  soon  after  her  aunt's  death.  I  am  going 
back  next  January,  and  I  have  reason  to  suppose,  in 

fact,  Bare I  am  almost  sure  she  will  accept 

me  then.  I  trust  you  will  receive  her  kindly,  Agneta. 
I  shall  look  to  you." 

Between  gratification  at  his  words  and  apprehension 
for  the  future  his  sister  was  almost  struck  dumb. 

"What  will  Mama  say  ?"  she  exclaimed  when  she  found 
her  tongue. 

"I  am  afraid  it  does  not  much  matter  what  Mama 
says,"  replied  Crauford,  with  playful  intrepidity. 

He  knew  very  well  that  he  would  not  be  at  Fordyce 
to  hear. 

But  there  was  no  use  in  meeting  troubles  half-way 
and  Agneta  was  dying  to  know  more. 

"Is  she  tall,  brother?" 

"Rather  tall,"  he  replied.  "She  has  a  beautiful 
figure — very  slender." 

"As  thin  as  Lady  Maria?" 

"Good  gracious,  no!"  exclaimed  Crauford. 

"And  what  is  her  hair  like,  dark  or  fair?" 

"Rather  dark,  but  not  black." 

"And  her  eyes?" 

"Remarkable  eyes — in  fact,  rather  too  extraordinary. 
Not  quite  usual." 

"She  does  not  squint?"  cried  Agneta,  seized  with 
horror. 

"Should  I  wish  for  a  wife  who  squinted?"  asked  he, 
rather  huffily. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not;  don't  be  angry,  Crauford. 
Why  do  you  not  like  her  eyes?" 

"Oh,  I  do  like  them;  only  I  wish  they  were  more  like 
other  people's,  wider  open  and  bluer;  you  will  see  her 
for  yourself,  Agneta.  There  was  another  man  who 
wanted  to  marry  her  not  long  ago,  a  sulky-looking  fel- 


236  THE  INTERLOPER 

low  called  Speid ;  but  she  soon  sent  him  away  and  he  has 
gone  off  to  Spain." 

"  Because  of  her  ?  Did  he  really  ?"  exclaimed  Agneta, 
taking  a  long  breath  as  she  recognised  the  desperate 
matters  life  could  contain. 

Lady  Maria's  parasol,  which  was  seen  advancing  in  the 
distance  between  the  laurel  bushes,  put  an  end  to  further 
confidences,  for  Lady  Maria's  eyes,  round  enough  and 
blue  enough  to  satisfy  anybody,  had  discovered  the 
brother  and  sister  and  she  was  coming  toward  them. 

Crauford,  having  been  absent  from  the  breakfast  table, 
had  not  met  the  young  lady  that  morning.  He  made  a 
stiff,  serio-comic  bow,  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart.  He 
could  unbend  sometimes. 

"I  hope  your  ladyship  is  well  to-day,"  he  observed. 

She  blushed  awkwardly,  not  knowng  how  to  take  his 
pleasantries.  She  looked  good  and  modest,  and,  in 
feature,  rather  as  if  she  had  changed  faces  with  a  pea- 
hen. Agneta  surveyed  her  from  head  to  heel,  earnestly 
and  covertly ;  she  did  not  look  as  if  she  would  drive  any- 
one to  Spain.  She  was  rather  impressed  by  the  idea  of 
a  sister-in-law  who  could  so  ruffle  her  brother  and  his 
sex,  for,  though  she  was  over  twenty-six  years  old,  she 
had  only  read  of  such  things  in  books ;  she  had  an  over- 
whelming respect  for  men,  and  it  scarcely  occurred  to 
her  that  women  whom  one  might  meet  every  day,  and 
who  were  not  constitutionally  wicked,  could  deal  with 
them  so  high-handedly.  The  possibilities  of  woman- 
hood had  never  dawned  on  her,  any  more  than  they  dawn 
on  hundreds  of  others,  both  well  and  ill-favored,, who 
live  contentedly,  marry  early,  have  children  frequently, 
and,  finally,  die  lamented,  knowing  as  much  of  the 
enthralling  trade  of  being  a  woman  as  they  did  on  the 
day  they  were  born. 

But  Agneta  was  groping  along  the  edge  of  a  world  of 
strange  discoveries,  as  she  stood  by  the  bowling-green 
and  mechanically  watched  the  figures  of  her  father  and 


CECILIA  SEES  THE  WILD  GEESE        237 

the  Reverend  Samuel  Mackay  straddling  as  they  ap- 
praised their  shots.  Crauford  and  Lady  Maria  had  long 
vanished  into  the  house  by  the  time  she  turned  to  look 
after  them,  and  the  bowl-players  had  finished  their 
game,  discussed  it,  and  begun  another.  She  felt  that 
being  in  her  brother's  confidence  had  given  her  a  great 
stride  in  life. 

Four  months  later,  she  stood  in  the  same  place  by  the 
bowling-green  and  saw  him  drive  up  the  avenue  to  the 
Castle ;  he  had  been  at  Fullarton  for  nearly  a  week  and 
she  went  round  to  the  front  door  to  meet  him. 

"My  news  is  important,  Agneta,"  he  said,  as  he 
greeted  her.  "Miss  Raeburn  has  consented;  I  have 
come  to  fetch  some  clothes  I  want  and  am  going  away 
again  to-morrow.  Say  nothing." 

"  Oh !"  said  his  sister.     "  I " 

The  sentence  was  never  completed,  for  Lady  Fordyce 
appeared  in  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

AN    EMPTY    HOUSE 

WHEN  the  decisive  step  had  been  taken  and  Crau- 
ford's  perseverance  was  at  last  crowned  with  success, 
he  straightway  informed  his  uncle  of  his  good  fortune ; 
also,  he  begged  him  to  say  nothing  of  the  matter  till  he 
should  have  gone  to  Fordyce  Castle  to  announce  his 
news.  As  we  have  seen,  he  did  not  mean  to  announce 
it  in  person,  but  he  wished  to  see  Agneta  before  retiring 
to  a  safe  distance  and  writing  to  Sir  Thomas,  of  whose 
consent  the  past  had  made  him  sure;  from  his  sister  he 
counted  on  hearing  how  soon  it  would  be  wise  for  him  to 
face  Lady  Fordyce.  Before  he  left  Fullarton  he  had 
allowed  himself  one  day  to  be  spent  with  Cecilia. 

"You  cannot  expect  me  to  go  to-morrow,"  he  said  to 
her,  with  solemn  gallantry,  as  he  emerged  from  Fullar- 
ton's  study,  where  he  had  been  to  declare  the  engage- 
ment. 

"Do  you  not  think  your  parents  might  be  offended  if 
you  delay?"  she  suggested  faintly. 

"Let  them!"  exclaimed  Crauford. 

All  next  day  she  had  clung  to  Fullarton's  proximity, 
hating  to  be  alone  with  the  man  with  whom  she  was  to 
pass  her  life,  and  feeling  half  desperate  when  Robert 
closeted  himself  with  a  tenant  who  had  come  to  see  him 
on  business.  Crauford's  blunt  lack  of  perception  made 
him  difficult  to  keep  at  a  distance,  and  she  had  now  no 
right  to  hurt  his  feelings.  On  her  finger  was  the  ring  he 
had,  with  much  forethought,  brought  with  him;  and, 
had  it  been  an  iron  chain  on  her  neck,  it  could  not  have 

238 


AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  239 

galled  her  more.  When,  at  last,  he  had  driven  away, 
she  rushed  to  her  room  and  pulled  it  off ;  then  she  dipped 
her  handkerchief  in  rosewater  and  dabbed  her  face  and 
lips ;  for,  though  she  had  tried  to  say  good-bye  to  him  in 
Fullarton's  presence,  she  had  not  succeeded  and  she  had 
paid  heavily  for  her  failure. 

For  whatever  motive  she  was  accepting  his  name,  his 
protection,  and  the  ease  of  life  he  would  give  her,  she 
must  treat  him  fairly;  she  felt  this  strongly.  She  had 
not  hid  from  him  a  truth  which  she  would  have  liked  him 
better  for  finding  more  unpalatable;  namely,  that  she  did 
not  love  him. 

"You  will  learn  to,  in  time,"  he  had  observed,  com- 
placently. 

If  he  had  said  that  he  loved  her  well  enough  for 
two,  or  some  such  trite  folly  as  men  will  say  in  like 
circumstances,  it  would  have  been  less  hateful.  But 
he  had  merely  changed  the  subject  with  a  common- 
place reflection.  For  all  that,  she  felt  that  she  was 
cheating  him. 

To  play  her  part  with  any  attempt  at  propriety,  she 
must  have  time  to  bring  her  mind  to  it  without  the  strain 
of  his  presence.  He  might  appear  at  Fullarton  at  any 
moment,  with  the  intention  of  staying  for  days,  and 
Cecilia  decided  that  she  must  escape  from  a  position 
which  became  hourly  more  difficult.  While  she  racked 
her  brain  in  thinking  how  this  might  be  effected,  like  a 
message  from  the  skies  came  a  letter  from  her  friend 
and  Fullarton's  cousin,  the  Lord  Advocate's  widow. 
"Though  I  know  Mr.  Crauford  Fordyce  very  slightly," 
she  wrote,  "he  is  still  related  to  me,  and  I  have  to  thank 
him  warmly  for  being  the  means  of  bringing  my  dearest 
Miss  Raeburn  into  the  family.  Would  that  I  could  see 
you  to  offer  you  my  sincerest  good  wishes !  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  day  is  yet  fixed,  but  should  you  have 
time  to  spare  me  a  visit,  or  inclination  to  consult  the 
Edinburgh  mantua-makers,  I  should  receive  you  with  a 


24o  THE  INTERLOPER 

pleasure  of  whose  reality  you  know  me  well  enough  to  be 
assured." 

She  had  still  nearly  eight  weeks'  respite.  The  wedding 
which  was  to  take  place  upon  the  tenth  of  April,  was,  at 
her  earnest  request,  to  be  at  Morphie  Kirk,  for  she  wanted 
to  begin  her  new  life  near  the  scenes  of  the  old  one.  She 
was  to  be  married  from  Fullarton ;  Robert,  having  con- 
stituted himself  her  guardian,  would  give  her  away,  and 
Crauford,  according  to  time-honoured  etiquette,  would 
be  lodged  in  Kaims;  Mr.  Barclay  had  offered  his  house. 
In  justice  to  the  bridegroom,  she  must  not  fall  short  of 
the  ordinary  standard  of  bridal  appearance,  and  she 
showed  Robert  his  cousin's  letter,  saying  that,  with  his 
permission,  she  would  go  to  Edinburgh  to  buy  her  wed- 
ding gown.  On  the  plea  of  ill-health  Lady  Fordyce  had 
refused  to  be  present  at  the  ceremony,  and  it  was  only 
the  joint  pressure  brought  to  bear  on  her  by  brother  and 
husband  which  forced  from  her  a  reluctant  consent  that 
Mary  and  Agneta  should  go  to  Fullarton  and  play  the 
part  of  bridesmaids.  Sir  Thomas  had  shown  unusual 
decision. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  her  departure  that  Cecilia 
rode  out  to  take  a  last  look  at  Morphie.  Though  there 
was,  as  yet,  no  hint  of  coming  spring  in  the  air,  in  a  month 
the  thrushes  and  blackbirds  would  be  proclaiming  their 
belief  in  its  approach,  and  a  haze,  like  a  red  veil,  would 
be  touching  the  ends  of  the  boughs.  As  she  stopped  on 
the  highroad  and  looked  across  the  wall  at  Morphie 
House,  she  felt  like  a  returned  ghost.  Its  new  owners 
had  left  it  uninhabited  and  the  white  blinds  were  drawn 
down  like  the  eyelids  of  a  dead  face ;  her  life  there  seemed 
sometimes  so  real  and  sometimes  so  incredible — as  if  it 
had  never  been.  She  saw  herself  going  through  the 
rooms,  loitering  in  the  garden,  and  performing  the  hun- 
dred and  one  duties  and  behests  she  had  done  so  willing!}-. 
She  smiled,  though  her  heart  ached,  as  she  remembered 
her  aunt's  short  figure  leaning  out  of  a  window  above  the 


AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  241 

stable-yard,  watching  the  horses  being  brought  out  for 
exercise  and  calling  out  her  orders  to  the  men.  How 
silent  it  all  was  now;  the  only  moving  things  were  the 
pigeons  which  had  always  haunted  Morphie,  the  descend- 
ants of  those  for  which  Gilbert  had  fought  two  years  ago. 
She  turned  away  and  took  the  road  that  followed  the 
river's  course  to  Whanland. 

Here,  too,  everything  was  still,  though  the  entrance 
gate  was  standing  open.  She  had  never  yet  been  inside 
it;  long  before  it  had  acquired  special  interest  for  her 
she  had  felt  a  curiosity  about  the  untenanted  place ;  but 
Lady  Eliza  had  always  driven  by  quickly,  giving  unsatis- 
factory answers  to  any  questions  she  had  put.  She  rode 
in,  unable  to  resist  her  impulse,  and  sat  on  horseback 
looking  up  at  the  harled  walls.  The  front  door  was 
ajar,  and,  seeing  this,  she  was  just  about  to  ride  away, 
when  there  were  footsteps  behind  her  and  Granny  Stirk, 
her  arms  loaded  with  fresh-cut  sticks,  came  round  a  cor- 
ner of  the  house.  She  let  her  bundle  fall  in  a  clattering 
shower  and  came  up  to  Cecilia.  Since  Gilbert  had  left  she 
had  not  seen  the  woman  who,  she  was  sure,  had  been  the 
cause  of  his  departure,  and  her  heart  was  as  hard  against 
her  as  the  heart  of  Miss  Hersey  Robertson. 

"Do  you  take  care  of  the  house?"  asked  Cecilia,  when 
they  had  exchanged  a  few  words. 

"Ay;  whiles  a'  come  in-by  an'  put  on  a  bittie  fire. 
The  Laird  asket  me.  But  Macquean's  no  verra  canny 
to  work  wi'." 

"  Oh,  Granny,  let  me  come  in  !"  cried  Cecilia.  "  I  want 
so  much  to  see  this  place.  I  shall  never  see  it  again — I 
am  going  away,  you  know." 

The  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  eyed  her  like  an  accusing 
angel. 

"And  what  for  are  ye  no  here — you  that  sent  the  Laird 
awa'?"  she  cried.  "Puir  lad!  He  cam'  in-by  to  me, 
and  says  he,  "  Ye've  been  aye  fine  to  me,  Granny,"  says 
he.  And  a'  just  asket  him,  for  a'  kenned  him  verra  well, 


242  THE  INTERLOPER 

"Whaur  is  she?"  says  I.  "It's  a'  done.  Granny,"  says 
he,  "it's  a'  done!"  An'  he  sat  down  to  the  fire  just 
wearied-like.  "An'  are  ye  no  to  get  her?"  says  I. 
"  Na,"  says  he.  "Aweel,  ye'll  get  better"  says  I.  A'  tell't 
him  that,  Miss  Raeburn — but  he  wadna  believe  it,  puir 
lad." 

Cecilia  had  not  spoken  to  one  living  creature  who  had 
met  Gilbert  Speid  since  they  parted,  and  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears;  she  slid  from  her  horse  and  stood  weeping 
before  the  old  woman.  Her  long  self-control  gave  way, 
for  the  picture  raised  by  Granny's  tongue  unnerved  her 
so  completely  that  she  seemed  to  be  losing  hold  of  every- 
thing but  her  own  despair.  She  had  not  wept  since  the 
day  she  had  heard  the  wild  geese. 

"Ay !  ye  may  greet,"  said  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers, 
"ye've  plenty  to  greet  for!  Was  there  ever  a  lad  like 
Whanland?" 

Cecilia  could  not  speak  for  sobs ;  when  the  barriers  of 
such  a  nature  as  hers  are  broken  down  there  is  no  power 
that  can  stay  the  flood. 

"  He  thocht  the  world  o'  you,"  continued  Granny,  fold- 
ing her  arms;  "there  was  naething  braw  eneuch  for  you 
wi'  him.  There  wasna  mony  that  kent  him  as  weel  as  a' 
kent  him.  He  didna  say  verra  muckle,  but  it  was  sair 
to  see  him." 

"Granny!  Granny!  have  pity!"  cried  Cecilia.  "I 
cannot  bear  this  !  Oh,  you  don't  understand !  I  love 
him  with  all  my  heart  and  I  shall  never  see  him  again. 
You  are  so  cruel,  Granny  Stirk — where  are  the  reins  ?  I 
am  going  now." 

Blind  with  her  tears,  she  groped  about  in  the  horse's 
mane. 

"What  ailed  ye  to  let  him  awa'  then?"  exclaimed  the 
old  woman,  laying  her  hand  on  the  bridle. 

"  I  could  not  help  it.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Granny,  but  I 
had  to  give  him  up.  Don't  ask  me — I  was  obliged  to 
give  him  up,  though  I  loved  him  better  than  anything 


AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  243 

in  the  world.  It  was  not  my  fault ;  he  knew  it.  I  am 
so  miserable — so  miserable  !" 

"An*  you  that's  to  be  married  to  the  Laird  o*  Fullar- 
ton's  nephew  !"  cried  Granny  Stirk. 

"I  wish  I  were  dead,"  sobbed  Cecilia. 

Though  Granny  knew  nothing  of  the  tangle  in  which 
her  companion  was  held,  she  knew  something  of  life,  and 
she  knew  real  trouble  when  she  saw  it.  Her  fierceness 
against  her  was  turned  into  a  dawning  pity.  How  any 
woman  could  give  up  a  man  she  loved  was  a  mystery  to 
her,  and  how  any  woman  could  give  up  the  Laird  of 
Whanland,  incomprehensible.  But  the  ways  of  the 
gentry  were  past  finding  out. 

"Come  awa'  in,"  she  said,  as  Cecilia  dried  her  eyes, 
"and  a'll  cry  on  Macquean  to  tak'  the  horse.  Jimmy's 
at  the  stable  an'  he'll  mind  it ;  'twas  him  brocht  me  here 
i'  the  cairt." 

She  took  the  rein  from  her  and  walked  round  the  house, 
leading  the  animal. 

"Macquean,  ye  thrawn  brute  !"  she  cried,  as  she  went, 
"tak'  yon  horse  to  Jimmy.  He'll  no  touch  ye,  man  !" 

Cecilia  entered,  and,  through  a  passage  window,  she 
could  see  Macquean  in  a  rusty  black  coat,  sitting  on  a 
stone-heap  outside. 

"  Come  here,  a'  tell  ye !"  cried  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers. 

Cecilia  saw  him  shake  his  head. 

"Ye'd  be  mair  use  as  a  golloch*  than  a  man,"  said 
Granny,  throwing  the  reins  to  her  grandson,  who  was 
coming  toward  them. 

Cecilia  went  into  a  room  and  sat  down  on  a  window- 
seat;  most  of  the  furniture  was  put  away,  and  what  was 
left  had  been  covered  up  carefully  by  Granny  and  Mac- 
quean. Clementina's  portrait  was  gone  from  the  wall, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  bay  coach-horse,  and  the  alcoves 
by  the  fireplace  were  empty  of  books.  She  sat  and 
gazed  at  the  bare  beech-trees  and  the  fields  between 
*  Blackbeetle. 


244  THE  INTERLOPER 

Whanland  and  the  sand-hills.  He  must  have  looked 
out  at  that  view  every  day,  and  her  eyes  drank  it  in ;  the 
garden  wall  and  the  stable  buildings  broke  its  flat  lines. 
Being  on  the  ground  floor,  she  could  not  see  the  sea;  but 
the  heaven  above,  with  its  long-drawn,  fine  clouds,  wore 
the  green-gray  which  suggests  an  ocean-sky.  She  was 
quite  calm  by  the  time  Granny  came  in  and  stood  beside 
her. 

The  old  woman,  though  softened  and  puzzled,  was 
yet  in  an  inquisitorial  mind;  she  stood  before  the 
window-seat,  her  arms  akimbo,  and  her  skirt  turned  up 
and  drawn  through  the  placket-hole,  for  she  had  been 
cleaning. 

"An*  what  gar'd  ye  put  Whanland  awa'  if  ye  liket  him 
sae  weel?"  she  asked  again.  "Dod,  that  wasna  the  gait 
a'  wad  hae  gaed  when  a'  was  a  lassie  !" 

"I  cannot  speak  about  it,"  answered  Cecilia,  rising, 
her  face  set;  "there  is  no  use  in  asking  me.  I  was  forced 
to  do  it.  God  knows  I  have  no  heart  left.  Oh,  Granny  ! 
if  he  could  but  come  back !  In  two  months  I  shall  be 
married." 

The  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  stood  silent;  there  was  so 
much  more  in  the  matter  than  she  had  suspected; 
Cecilia  might  be  a  fool,  but  she  was  not  the  cold-hearted 
flirt  whom  she  had  pictured  torturing  Gilbert  for  her  own 
entertainment . 

"  It's  ill  work  mendin'  ae  man's  breeks  when  yer  hairt's 
in  anither  ane's  pocket,"  she  said. 

Though  mirth  was  far,  indeed,  from  her,  Cecilia  could 
not  help  smiling  at  this  crusty  cutting  from  the  loaf  of 
wisdom. 

"Ah  !  ye  may  lauch  now,"  exclaimed  Granny  solemnly, 
"but  what  '11  ye  do  when  he  comes  hame,  an'  you  mar- 
ried ?  Ye'll  need  to  mind  yersel'  then." 

Neither  of  the  women  knew  on  how  appropriate  a  spot 
the  warning  was  offered,  as  they  stood  within  a  few  feet 
of  Clementina  Speid's  empty  place  upon  the  wall. 


AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  245 

"I  shall  be  gone,"  answered  Cecilia.  "I  pray  that  I 
may  never  see  his  face  again." 

"Wad  ye  tak'  him,  syne  he  was  hame?" 

"Do  you  mean  if  he  were  to  come  now?"  asked 
Cecilia. 

"Ay." 

"Oh,  Granny,  stop — there  is  no  use  in  thinking  or 
hoping." 

"Wad  ye  gang  wi'  him?"  persisted  the  old  woman. 

"What  do  you  think?"  cried  Cecilia,  facing  her  sud- 
denly, "do  you  think  anything  could  keep  me  back? 
Do  you  think  I  have  ever  ceased  hoping  or  praying? 
Don't  torment  me — I  have  enough  to  bear.  Come,  let 
me  see  Whanland.  Show  me  everything,  dear  Granny, 
before  I  go.  I  shall  look  at  it  and  never  forget  it;  all 
my  life  I  shall  remember  it.  Come." 

The  two  went  from  room  to  room,  Granny  leading  the 
way.  Cecilia's  eyes  devoured  everything,  trying  to  stamp 
each  detail  on  her  mind.  They  went  through  the  lower 
rooms,  and  upstairs,  their  steps  echoing  in  the  carpetless 
passages.  There  was  little  to  see  but  the  heavy  four- 
post  beds,  a  few  high-backed  chairs  which  still  stood  in 
their  places,  and  the  mantelpieces  carved  with  festoon 
and  thyrsus.  They  went  up  to  the  attics  and  into  the 
garret ;  the  pictures  had  come  back  to  the  place  in  which 
Gilbert  had  first  found  them. 

"Yon's  the  Laird's  mother,"  said  Granny,  turning 
Clementina's  portrait  to  the  light,  "she's  bonnie,  puir 
thing.'" 

"Was  that  like  her?" 

"The  very  marrows  of  her,"  replied  she. 

The  mother  Gilbert  had  never  seen  and  the  bride  he 
had  never  married  were  come  face  to  face.  The  living 
woman  looked  at  the  painted  one,  searching  for  some 
trace  of  resemblance  to  the  man  from  whom  she  had 
divided  her ;  it  was  too  dark  for  her  to  see  the  little  box 
in  Clementina's  hand.  There  was  something  in  her 


246  THE  INTERLOPER 

bearing  which  recalled  Gilbert,  something  in  the  brows 
and  the  carriage  of  the  head. 

"  Come  away,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  must  go  home  now. 
I  shall  always  thank  you  for  showing  me  Whanland." 

They  went  downstairs  and  she  stood  on  the  doorstep 
while  Granny  went  to  the  stable  for  her  horse ;  the  light 
was  beginning  to  change ;  she  would  have  to  ride  fast  to 
reach  Fullarton  before  it  went.  To-morrow  she  was  to 
leave  for  Edinburgh,  and  her  return  would  only  take 
place  a  few  days  before  the  wedding.  A  page  in  her  life 
was  turning  down.  She  was  to  go  to  London  with  her 
husband,  and,  in  a  few  months,  they  were  to  come  back 
to  settle  in  a  place  in  Roxburghshire  belonging  to  Sir 
Thomas  Fordyce.  The  east  coast  would  soon  fade  away 
from  her  like  one  of  its  own  mists ;  the  voice  of  the  North 
Sea,  which  came  faintly  from  the  shore,  was  booming  a 
farewell,  for  the  tide  was  coming  in  beyond  the  bents. 

Before  she  turned  away  she  leaned  down  from  her 
saddle. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "when — if — Mr.  Speid  comes 
back,  tell  him  that  I  came  here  and  that " 

But  she  could  not  go  on  and  rode  down  the  short 
approach  without  ending  her  sentence.  "Good-bye!" 
she  called  at  the  gate,  waving  her  hand. 

Cecilia  had  reached  Fullarton  by  the  time  Granny 
Stirk  had  finished  her  cleaning,  for  her  visit  had  taken  a 
good  piece  out  of  the  afternoon.  Though  she  generally 
was  a  steady  worker,  the  old  woman  paused  many  times 
and  laid  down  her  duster.  She  took  particular  care  of 
the  room  in  which  Gilbert  slept,  but,  as  she  shook  and 
beat  the  heavy  curtains  of  his  bed,  her  mind  was  not  in 
her  task.  She  was  willing  to  admit  that  his  passion  was 
not  altogether  indefensible.  As  women  went,  Cecilia 
was  more  than  very  well,  and,  like  nearly  everyone  who 
had  once  spoken  to  her,  she  did  not  deny  her  beauty. 
She  pitied  her  too;  though,  it  is  to  be  feared,  had  her 
dead  body  been  of  any  use  to  Speid,  she  would  have 


AN  EMPTY  HOUSE  247 

stood  by  and  seen  her  murdered.  But,  as  he  preferred 
her  living,  he  should  have  her,  if  she,  Joann  Stirk,  could 
get  him  home  in  time.  Once  let  him  come  back  and  she 
would  tell  him  what  to  do. 

"  Ye'll  hae  to  drive  me  to  Kaims  i'  the  cairt  the  morn's 
morn,"  she  observed  to  her  grandson,  as  they  bowled 
homeward. 

"I'm  for  Blackport,"  said  Jimmy,  laconically. 

"Ye'll  do  as  ye're  bid,"  replied  the  Queen  of  the 
Cadgers. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A   ROYAL   VISIT 

WHILE  Granny  had  shaken  the  curtains  in  Gilbert's 
bedroom  her  mind  had  worked  as  hard  as  her  hands;  there 
was  no  doubt  in  it  of  one  thing ;  namely,  that,  by  hook  or 
by  crook,  he  must  be  brought  home.  It  was  a  large  idea 
for  her  to  have  conceived,  because  she  scarcely  knew 
where  he  was  and  had  no  idea  how  he  might  be  reached. 
She  understood  that  Barclay  had  means  of  communica- 
tion with  him,  but,  since  the  visit  he  had  paid  her,  osten- 
sibly to  examine  her  mended  roof,  and,  really,  to  pry  into 
Speid's  affairs,  she  had  distrusted  him  fundamentally. 
The  matter  was  intimate  and  needed  the  intervention  of 
someone  upon  whom  she  could  depend.  As  the  Laird  of 
Fullarton  was  uncle  to  the  person  she  wished  to  circum- 
vent, he  also  was  an  impossible  adviser.  The  Miss 
Robertsons,  under  any  aspect  but  that  of  being  Gilbert's 
relations,  she  looked  upon  as  futile.  "Twa  doited  auld 
bodies  wha's  lives  is  nae  object  to  them,"  as  she  had 
described  them,  were  not  worth  consideration  in  such  a 
case.  In  her  strait  she  suddenly  bethought  herself  of 
Captain  Somerville.  He  had  three  special  advantages; 
he  was  her  idol's  friend,  he  was  exceedingly  civil  to  her- 
self, and  she  had  once  seen  him  in  uniform.  This  last 
qualification  gave  him  something  of  the  weight  and 
security  of  a  public  character.  Also,  a  person  who  had 
fought  the  French — all  foreigners  were  French  to  her — 
in  every  quarter  of  the  world,  must  surely  be  able  to  put 
his  hand  on  any  part  of  it  at  a  moment's  notice. 

248 


A  ROYAL  VISIT  249 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  could  hardly  have  made  a  bet- 
ter choice.  The  sailor,  who  bore  a  most  human  love  to 
his  kind,  had  appraised  many  men  and  women  in  his 
time,  and  he  had  a  vast  admiration  for  Granny.  Gallant 
himself  to  the  core  of  his  simple  soul,  he  loved  the  qual- 
ity in  others,  and  the  story  of  her  fight  with  circum- 
stances and  final  mastery  of  them  had  struck  him  in  a 
sensitive  place.  On  that  memorable  day  on  which  she 
had  seen  him  in  uniform  he  was  returning  from  Aberdeen, 
where  he  had  gone  to  meet  an  official  person,  and  his 
chaise  passed  her  cottage.  As  he  drove  by,  he  saw  the 
little  upright  figure  standing  on  the  doorstep,  and, 
remembering  her  history,  with  a  sudden  impulse  he 
raised  his  hand  and  saluted  her. 

Though  he  was  not,  perhaps,  so  renowned  a  warrior  as 
the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  supposed,  Captain  Somerville 
had  seen  a  good  deal  of  service,  and  had  lost  his  leg,  not 
in  the  doing  of  any  melodramatic  act,  but  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  a  very  steadily  and  efficiently  performed  duty. 
As  a  boy,  he  had  gone  to  sea  when  the  sea  was  a  harder 
profession  than  it  is  now  and  when  parents  had  had  to 
think,  not  twice,  but  many  times,  before  committing 
their  sons  to  it.  He  had  run  away  and  smuggled  him- 
self upon  a  merchantman  lying  in  the  harbour  near  his 
horde,  and  before  she  sailed  he  had  been  discovered  by 
the  first  mate.  His  irate  father,  to  whom  he  was 
returned,  thinking  to  cure  him  of  an  infatuation  he  could 
not,  himself,  understand,  arranged  with  the  captain 
that  he  should  be  taken  on  the  voyage — which  was  a 
short  one — and  made  to  work  hard.  "It  would  show 
the  young  fool,"  he  said,  "that  the  Church" — for  which 
he  was  destined — "was  a  more  comfortable  place  than 
a  ship."  But  the  treatment  produced  an  exactly  con- 
trary result.  Finally,  the  family  three-decker  received 
the  person  of  a  younger  brother,  and,  after  much  dis- 
cussion, His  Majesty's  Navy  that  of  a  new  midshipman. 
More  than  fifteen  years  afterward  he  got  into  a  young 


250  THE  INTERLOPER 

man's  scrape  in  an  obscure  seaport,  and  emerged  from 
it  with  Mrs.  Somerville  in  tow.  It  was  one  from  which 
a  less  honourable  man  would  have  escaped  more  fortu- 
nately. The  lady  was  accustomed  to  say,  in  after  times, 
that  she  had  been  "married  from  the  schoolroom,"  but 
many  who  heard  her  suspected  that  there  had  never 
been  a  schoolroom  in  the  matter.  He  had  now  been 
Coastguard  Inspector  at  Kaims  for  over  seven  years. 

The  sailor  was  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table  next 
morning  opposite  to  his  wife,  portions  of  whose  figure 
were  visible  behind  the  urn ;  Miss  Lucilla  was  away  on  a 
visit.  The  house  stood  a  little  back  from  the  High 
Street,  and,  though  the  room  was  quiet,  a  cart  which 
had  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  strip  of  garden  was 
unnoticed  by  the  pair. 

"If  ye  please,"  said  the  parlour-maid,  looking  in, 
"there's  a  fishwife  wad  like  to  speak  wi'  you." 

"We  require  nothing  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Somerville. 

"She's  no  sellin*.  She's  just  needin'  a  word  wi'  the 
Captain.  It's  Mrs.  Stirk — her  that  bides  out  by  Garvie- 
kirk." 

"It's  Her  Majesty  of  the  Cadgers,  my  dear,"  said  the 
Inspector;  "we  must  ask  her  to  come  in." 

The  parlor-maid  smiled. 

"She  says  she  wad  like  to  see  ye  alone,  sir.  'It'll*  no 
keep,'  she  says." 

"Impertinent  woman!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Somerville, 
"what  can  she  have  to  say  that  I  am  not  supposed  to 
hear?" 

"I  would  do  a  good  deal  to  oblige  her,"  said  Somer- 
ville, dragging  himself  up.  "Show  her  into  the  next 
room." 

Granny  Stirk  had  put  on  her  pebble  brooch ;  the  little 
woollen  shawl,  crossed  over  her  chest  with  its  long  ends 
tied  behind  the  waist,  was  of  a  bright  red  and  black 
check;  her  head  was  bare  and  her  thick  iron-gray  hair 
held  by  a  black  net;  her  gold  earrings  shone.  An 


A  ROYAL  VISIT  251 

indefinable  rush  of  fresh  air,  brine,  and  tar  came  in  with 
her. 

"Sit  down,  Mrs.  Stirk,"  said  Somerville,  as  he  stumped 
in.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"Sir,"  said  she,  "could  ye  tell  me  what's  come  of  the 
Laird  o'  Whanland?" 

"God  bless  me!"  exclaimed  the  astonished  sailor,  "I 
think  he's  in  Spain. 

"Does  he  no  write  ye?  A'  mind  he  was  aye  billies* 
wi"  you." 

"I  have  heard  nothing  of  him  since  he  left." 

She  made  a  gesture  of  dismay. 

"Mr.  Barclay  must  know  where  he  is,"  said  he.  "I 
could  get  his  direction  for  you,  I  dare  say,  if  it  was  any- 
thing urgent." 

"Fie,  na !"  she  exclaimed.  "Lord's  sake!  dinna  say 
a  word  to  the  like  o'  him !" 

"But  what  is  the  trouble,  my  good  woman?" 

Before  replying,  Granny  drew  her  chair  close  to  his, 
throwing  a  searching  look  round  the  room  and  at  the 
door;  unfortunately,  she  could  not  see  through  the 
latter,  but  had  she  been  able  to  do  so  she  would  have 
noticed  Mrs.  Somerville  standing  on  the  door-mat. 

She  plunged  into  her  tale. 

"  Did  ye  no  ken  that  the  Laird  was  just  deem'  for  yon 
lassie  o'  her  ladyship's  ?  A'  ken't  it  fine,  but  he  tell't  me 
no  to  speak  a  word,  and,  dod !  a'  didna.  Well,  he  cam' 
in-by  to  me  and  tell't  me  he  was  gangin'  awa'  for  she 
wadna  tak'  him.  That  was  the  way  o't;  that  was  what 
gar'd  the  puir  lad  gang.  Did  ye  ken  that,  sir?" 

"I  guessed  it,"  said  the  Inspector,  enormously  sur- 
prised at  this  beginning. 

"Well,"  continued  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers,  leaning 
forward  and  solemnly  shaking  his  knee  to  compel  atten- 
tion, "well,  she's  to  be  married  in  April  month  an'  she's 
greetin'  hersel'  to  death  for  the  Laird." 
*  Friends. 


252  THE  INTERLOPER 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Somerville. 

"A'  was  puttin'  on  a  bittie  fire  at  Whanland  yesterday 
— a'  do  that,  whiles — an'  she  cam'  ridin'  up.  'Oh, 
Granny,  let  me  come  in-by !'  says  she.  'What  way  are 
ye  no  here?'  says  I.  'What  way  did  ye  let  the  Laird 
gang?'  An'  she  just  began  greetin'  till  I  was  near  feared 
at  her;  it  was  aye  the  Laird — the  Laird.  I  wager  she 
canna  thole  yon  lad  she's  to  get.  Says  I,  'Wad 
ye  tak'  him  if  he  was  to  come  back  i'  the  now  ?'  '  Oh  !' 
says  she,  'div  ye  think  I  wadna?  Oh!  if  he  was 
name  !  If  he  was  hame  !'  A'  could  hae  greetit  mysel', 
Captain." 

"But  why  did  she  not  many  him  at  the  beginning?" 

"I  askit  her  that.  'Granny,'  says  she,  'a'  canna  tell 
ye;  a'  couldna  help  mysel'.  There's  things  a'  canna 
speak  o'.  A'  wish. a'  was  dead,'  she  says. — An'  there's 
Whanland  that  doesna  ken  it!"  continued  the  old 
woman.  "Sir,  we'll  need  to  get  him  hame  afore  it's 
ower  late." 

Somerville  was  silent,  feeling  as  though  he  were  being 
invited  to  plunge  into  a  torrent.  He  was  certain  that 
every  word  Granny  said  was  true,  for,  though  he  had 
only  seen  Cecilia  once  since  the  news  of  her  engagement 
was  public,  that  once  had  been  enough  to  show  him  that 
she  was  wretched.  Some  miserable  tragedy  was  cer- 
tainly brewing. 

"Suppose  Mr.  Speid  has  forgotten  her?"  he  hazarded. 

"Him  forget?"  cried  Granny,  rising  with  a  movement 
which  made  her  earrings  swing.  "By  Jarvit,  Captain, 
a'  didna  think  ye  was  sic  a  fule !" 

"Perhaps  I'm  not,"  said  he,  rather  nettled;  "but  what 
made  you  come  to  me?" 

"Was  a'  to  gang  to  the  Laird  o*  Fullarton  that's  uncle 
to  yon  red-faced  loon?  Was  a'  to  gang  to  yon  tod 
Barclay  that's  aye  wi'  him  an'  that  doesna  like  the 
Laird — a'  ken  fine  he  doesna.  Was  a'  to  gang  to  they 
twa  auld  maidies  i'  the  Close  that  doesna  understand 


A  ROYAL  VISIT  253 

naething?  Not  me !"  said  Granny,  tossing  her  earrings 
again. 

Captain  Somerville  put  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his 
neck  and  ran  it  up  over  the  top  of  his  head  till  his  nose 
got  in  the  way;  his  hair  looked  like  a  field  of  oats  after 
a  rain-shower.  Things  did  seem  bad. 

"Ye'll  need  to  write  him — that's  what  ye'll  need  to 
do.  Tell  him  if  he  doesna  come  name,  it'll  be  ower 
late,"  continued  Granny. 

"  But  he  may  not  want  to  come,  Mrs.  Stirk — he  may 
have  changed  his  mind.  Remember,  it  is  more  than  a 
year  and  a  half  since  he  left." 

"Have  a'  no  tell't  ye?"  cried  she.  "There's  naebody 
kens  the  Laird  as  a'  ken  him.  Gang  yer  ain  gait,  sir, 
but,  when  Whanland  kens  the  truth,  an'  when  yon 
lassie's  awa'  wi'  the  wrong  lad, 'you  an'  me'll  need  to 
think  shame  o'  oursels  !" 

There  was  scarcely  anyone  who  could  more  fitly  appre- 
ciate the  horror  of  Cecilia's  position  than  the  sailor. 
Long  years  of  a  companionship,  whose  naked  uncon- 
genialness  he  had  decently  draped  with  loyalty,  were 
behind  him  to  give  point  to  Granny's  words;  also,  he 
thought  of  her  face  as  he  had  last  seen  it;  and  he  had 
that  highest  and  rarest  courage,  the  courage  that  is  not 
afraid  of  responsibility.  The  rock  on  which  second- 
rate  characters  go  to  pieces  had  no  terrors  for  him. 

The  silence  now  was  so  deep  that  Mrs.  Somerville,  on 
the  mat  outside,  began  to  fear  a  move  and  made  as  quiet 
a  retreat  as  she  could  to  the  breakfast-room.  She  had 
heard  enough  to  interest  her  considerably.  Though  the 
talk  was  resumed  before  she  was  out  of  earshot,  she  did 
not  dare  to  return,  for  she  saw,  looking  at  the  clock,  that 
the  maid  might  come  up  at  any  moment  to  clear  the 
breakfast-table. 

"  I  will  find  out  where  to  write  to  him,"  said  the  sailor. 
"We  must  lose  no  time,  for  the  letter  may  take  weeks  to 
reach  him.  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  forlorn  hope,  Mrs.  Stirk, 


254  THE  INTERLOPER 

but  we'll  do  our  best.  I  shall  write  very  urgently  to 
Miss  Raeburn  and  tell  her  what  I  have  done." 

"That's  you !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman. 

"I  must  send  the  letter  out  to  Fullarton  to  be  ad- 
dressed," continued  he,  "I  have  not  heard  where  she  is 
lodging  in  Edinburgh." 

"Dinna  hae  ony  steer  wi'  that  Barclay,"  said  Granny. 
"He's  aye  keekin'  an'  speerin'  about  what  doesna  con- 
cern him,  an'  makin'  work  wi'  Mr.  Fordyce." 

"I  will  go  to  the  Miss  Robertsons  this  afternoon,"  said 
he,  half  to  himself.  "I  know  Miss  Hersey  writes  to 
Speid.  I  suppose  that,  when  I  send  my  letter  to  him, 
I  may  say  you  have  been  here,  Mrs.  Stirk,  and  speak  of 
your  meeting  with  Miss  Raeburn?" 

"Ye  can  that,"  replied  she,  preparing  to  go,  "for  a'm 
terrible  pleased  a'  did  it.  A'll  awa'  now,  sir,  an'  thank 
ye." 

Mrs.  Somerville,  looking  out  of  the  window,  watched 
the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  walk  down  to  her  cart.  A 
sneer  touched  the  lady's  face  as  the  old  woman  got  in 
beside  her  grandson  and  was  driven  away. 

"Well,"  said  she,  as  her  husband  entered,  "what  did 
that  impudent  old  creature  want?  You  were  a  long 
time  listening  to  her." 

"She  was  consulting  me  about  private  matters,  my 
dear;  and  I  don't  consider  Mrs.  Stirk  an  impudent 
person." 

"You  are  so  fond  of  being  mixed  up  with  common 
people,"  rejoined  his  wife,  "I  am  sure  I  never  could 
understand  your  tastes." 

Had  the  sailor  never  mixed  up  with  common  people 
Mrs.  Somerville  would  not  have  been  sitting  where  she 
was. 

His  feelings  were  stirred  a  good  deal  and  he  was  in  a 
mood  in  which  pettinesses  were  peculiarly  offensive  to 
him.  Besides  that,  he  was  inclined  to  think  Granny's 
acquaintance  something  of  an  honour. 


A  ROYAL  VISIT  255 

"If  there  were  more  people  in  the  world  like  Mrs. 
Stirk,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  it,"  he  said  shortly. 
"You  are  an  uncommon  silly  woman  sometimes, 
Matilda." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

MRS.    SOMERVILLE    HAS    SCRUPLES 

MRS.  SOMERVILLE  retired  from  the  breakfast-room  in 
the  height  of  ill-humour:  it  was  not  often  that  her 
husband  spoke  to  her  in  so  plain  a  manner  and  she  was 
full  of  resentment.  She  was  conscious  that  she  had 
behaved  badly  in  listening  at  the  door,  and,  though  the 
act  did  not  seem  to  her  such  a  heinous  offense  as  it 
might  have  done  to  many  others,  her  conscience  ag- 
gravated her  discomfort. 

But  curiosity  was  a  tough  element  in  her,  and  she 
was  stayed  up  through  its  faint  attacks  by  the  interest- 
ing things  she  had  overheard.  Though  her  ears  were 
not  sharp,  and  the  pair  on  the  other  side  of  the  door 
had  been  sometimes  indistinct,  she  had  learned  enough 
to  gather  what  was  afoot.  Evidently,  Cecilia  Raeburn 
was  now  breaking  her  heart  for  Gilbert  Speid,  whom 
she  had  refused,  and  the  Inspector  and  Mrs.  Stirk  had 
agreed  that  he  should  be  told  of  it;  so  that,  if  he  were 
still  wearing  the  willow  for  the  young  woman,  he  might 
return  in  time  to  snatch  her  from  her  lawful  bridegroom. 

She  had  heard  a  good  deal  from  Barclay  of  the 
checkered  progress  of  Fordyce's  wooing  and  she  saw 
Speid  through  the  lawyer's  spectacles;  also,  the  drastic 
rebuke  she  had  suffered  from  Miss  Hersey  Robertson 
on  his  account  had  not  modified  her  view.  To  add  to 
this,  he  was  extremely  friendly  with  Captain  Somerville, 
and  she  was  of  a  class  which  is  liable  to  resent 
its  husband's  friends.  She  was  jealous  with  the  dread- 
ful jealousy  of  women  of  her  breeding;  not  from  love 

256 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE  HAS  SCRUPLES       257 

of  the  person  who  is  its  object,  but  from  an  unsleeping 
fear  for  personal  prerogative.  She  determined  to  tell 
Barclay  of  her  discoveries,  though  she  had  no  intention 
of  telling  him  how  she  had  come*  by  them;  and  the 
thought  of  this  little  secret  revenge  on  the  Inspector  was 
sweet  to  her. 

Throughout  the  morning  she  maintained  an  injured 
silence  which  he  was  too  much  preoccupied  to  observe, 
and  when,  in  the  afternoon,  he  took  his  hat  and  the 
stick  he  used  for  such  journeys  as  were  short  enough  for 
him  to  attempt  on  foot,  she  watched  him  with  a  sour 
smile.  He  had  not  told  her  where  he  was  going,  but 
she  knew  and  felt  superior  in  consequence.  She  won- 
dered when  Barclay  would  come  to  see  her;  if  he  did  not 
arrive  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two  she  must  send  him 
a  note.  He  was  accustomed  to  pay  her  a  visit  at  least 
once  every  week,  and  it  was  now  ten  days  since  he  had 
been  inside  her  doors. 

Captain  Somerville,  though  he  returned  with  his 
object  attained,  had  not  found  that  attainment  easy. 
The  Miss  Robertsons  had  always  looked  favourably  on 
him  as  an  individual,  but  Miss  Hersey  could  not  forget 
that  he  was  the  husband  of  his  wife;  and,  since  the 
moment  when  she  had  risen  in  wrath  and  left  the  party 
at  his  house,  there  had  been  a  change  in  her  feelings 
towards  him.  Well  did  she  know  that  such  a  speech 
as  the  one  which  had  offended  her  could  never  have 
been  uttered  by  the  sailor;  the  knowledge  made  no 
difference;  Miss  Hersey  was  strictly  and  fundamentally 
illogical. 

Gilbert  had  given  his  address  to  his  cousins  with  the 
request  that  it  should  not  be  passed  on  to  anyone.  He 
wanted  to  have  as  little  communication  as  possible  with 
the  life  he  had  left  behind,  and  the  news  of  Cecilia,  for 
which  he  had  begged,  was  the  only  news  he  cared  to 
receive;  business  letters  passing  between  himself  and 
Barclay  were  written  and  read  from  necessity.  He 


258  THE  INTERLOPER 

wished  to  give  himself  every  chance  of  forgetting, 
though,  in  his  attempts  to  do  so,  he  was  nearly  as 
illogical  as  Miss  Hersey. 

The  Inspector's  request  for  his  direction  was,  therefore, 
in  the  old  ladies'  eyes,  almost  part  and  parcel  of  his 
wife's  effrontery,  and  it  was  met  by  a  stiff  refusal  and 
a  silence  which  made  it  hard  for  him  to  go  further. 
The  red  chintz  sofa  bristled.  It  was  only  his  emphatic 
assurance  that  what  he  wished  to  tell  Gilbert  would 
affect  him  very  nearly  which  gained  his  point.  Even 
then  he  could  not  get  the  address,  and  had  to  content 
himself  with  Miss  Hersey's  promise,  that,  if  he  would 
write  his  letter,  seal  it  and  deliver  it  to  her,  she  would 
direct  and  send  it  with  all  despatch.  He  returned, 
conscious  of  having  strained  relations  almost  to  break- 
ing point,  but  he  did  not  care;  his  object  was  gained 
and  that  was  what  concerned  him.  He  had  become 
almost  as  earnest  as  Granny.  The  florid  lady  who 
watched  his  return  from  behind  her  drawing-room 
window-curtains  observed  the  satisfaction  in  his  look. 

He  was  a  slow  scribe,  as  a  rule,  and  it  took  him  some 
time  to  put  the  whole  sum  of  what  Granny  had  told  him 
before  Speid ;  it  was  only  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  his 
letter  that  his  pen  warmed  to  the  work  and  he  gave  him 
a  plain  slice  from  his  opinion.  "If  your  feelings  are  the 
same,"  he  wrote,  "then  your  place  is  here;  for,  if  you 
stay  away  a  day  longer  than  you  need,  you  are  leaving 
a  woman  in  the  lurch.  I  do  not  understand  this  matter 
but  I  understand  that  much."  Then  he  added  the 
date  of  the  wedding,  underlined  it,  and  assured  Gilbert 
that  he  was  "his  sincere  friend,  Wm.  Somerville."  A 
few  minutes  later,  his  lady,  still  at  the  window,  saw  the 
individual  who  was  at  once  coachman,  errand-boy,  and 
gardener  disappear  in  the  direction  of  Miss  Robertson's 
house  with  a  sealed  packet  in  his  hand. 

It  was  not  until  evening  that  he  sat  down  to  think 
what  he  should  say  to  Cecilia.  The  need  for  haste  was 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE  HAS  SCRUPLES       259 

not  so  great  in  this  case,  but  every  hour  was  of  value 
with  respect  to  the  letter  Miss  Hersey  was  forwarding 
to  Gilbert.  There  was  no  knowing  where  he  might  be, 
nor  how  long  it  might  take  in  reaching  him,  nor  how 
many  obstacles  might  rise  up  on  the  road  home,  even 
should  he  start  the  very  day  he  received  it.  But,  here, 
it  was  different.  The  sailor  bit  the  top  of  his  pen  as  he 
mused;  many  things  had  puzzled  him  and  many  things 
puzzled  him  still.  He  had  received  a  shock  on  hearing 
of  Cecilia's  intended  marriage.  In  his  own  mind  he  had 
never  doubted  that  she  loved  Speid,  and  this  new 
placing  of  her  affections  was  the  last  thing  he  expected ; 
if  there  were  no  question  of  affection,  then,  so  much  the 
worse,  in  his  eyes.  He  thought  little  of  Fordyce  and 
imagined  that  she  thought  little  of  him  too.  He  had 
never  supposed  that  money  would  so  influence  her,  and 
his  conclusion — a  reluctant  one — was  that  the  extreme 
poverty  which  must  be  her  portion,  now  Lady  Eliza 
was  gone,  had  driven  her  to  the  step. 

Granny  Stirk's  news  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the  proba- 
bility that  there  were  influences  at  work  of  which  he 
knew  nothing,  and  he  was  uncommon  enough  to  admit 
such  a  possibility.  When  most  people  know  how 
easily  they  could  manage  everybody  else's  business,  the 
astonishing  thing  is  that  they  should  ever  be  in  straits 
on  their  own  account.  But  it  never  astonishes  them. 
Captain  Somerville  had  the  capacity  for  being  astonished, 
both  at  himself  and  at  other  people;  the  world,  social 
and  geographical,  had  taught  him  that  there  is  no  royal 
road  to  the  solution  of  anyone's  difficulties.  The  man 
who  walks  about  with  little  contemptuous  panaceas  in 
his  pocket  for  his  friends'  troubles  is  generally  the  man 
whose  hair  turns  prematurely  gray  with  his  own.  What 
had  Cecilia  meant  when  she  told  the  old  woman,  weeping, 
th;at  she  could  not  help  herself?  He  would,  at  least, 
give  her  the  chance  of  helping  herself  now,  and  she 
could  take  it  or  leave  it  as  she  chose.  He  was  not 


26o  THE  INTERLOPER 

going  to  advise  her  nor  to  make  suggestions;  he  would 
merely  tell  her  what  he  had  done.  He  had  no  difficulty 
in  justifying  his  act  to  his  conscience ;  he  justified  it  to  his 
prudence  by  reflecting  on  what  she  had  given  the  Queen 
of  the  Cadgers  to  understand;  namely,  that,  if  the  exile 
should  return,  she  would  throw  all  to  the  winds  for  him. 

"My  writing-table  is  to  be  dusted  to-day,  and  I  shall 
leave  this  here,"  he  said  to  his  wife  on  the  following 
afternoon,  as  he  put  the  letter  he  had  written  on  the 
drawing-room  mantelpiece;  "if  you  can  hear  of  anyone 
going  in  the  direction  of  Fullarton,  I  should  be  glad  to 
have  it  carried.  It  is  to  Miss  Raeburn,  in  Edinburgh, 
so  Mr.  Fullarton  must  address  it  for  me." 

The  Inspector  was  muffled  in  his  plaid  and  Mrs. 
Somerville  knew  that  his  duty  was  taking  him  south  of 
Kaims;  Fullarton  lay  north  of  it.  As  he  left  the  house 
he  hesitated  a  moment.  What  if  Barclay  should  call, 
as  he  often  did,  on  his  way  to  Fullarton,  and  his  wife 
should  entrust  him  with  the  letter?  Granny  had  been 
urgent  in  telling  him  to  keep  clear  of  the  lawyer.  But 
he  laughed  at  his  own  doubt;  for,  with  the  worst  inten- 
tions, how  should  Barclay  know  what  it  contained  ? 
What  had  he  to  do  with  it  ?  The  old  woman's  dislike  of 
him  made  her  take  absurd  ideas  into  her  head. 

Mrs.  Somerville  placed  the  letter  where  it  could  lean 
against  the  clock,  and,  when  the  front-door  had  shut 
behind  him,  she  settled  herself  to  a  comfortable  after- 
noon by  the  fire;  beside  her  lay  the  materials  for  trim- 
ming a  bonnet,  and,  within  hand-stretch,  a  small  table- 
cover  under  which  she  might  hide  them  at  the  approach 
of  company.  As  she  had  said  to  Lucilla,  she  "did  not 
wish  to  get  the  name  of  trimming  her  own  bonnets." 
Her  mind  was  so  full  of  the  object  on  the  mantelpiece 
that  she  did  not  hear  a  step  on  the  stairs,  and,  greatly 
as  she  desired  Barclay's  visit,  when  he  was  ushered  in, 
she  had  temporarily  forgotten  his  existence.  The 
bonnet  disappeared  with  a  scuffle. 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE  HAS  SCRUPLES       261 

"You  are  quite  a  stranger,  I  declare !"  she  exclaimed 
when  the  lawyer  had  seated  himself. 

"Of  necessity,  Mrs.  Somerville — never  of  inclination. 
My  time  has  been  scarcely  my  own  this  week  past." 

"And  upon  whom  have  you  bestowed  it,  pray?" 

"Have  no  fear,  ma'am.  My  own  sex  is  entirely 
responsible.  And  I  have  been  making  a  slight  alteration 
in  my  house;  a  trifle,  but  necessary.  I  am  to  lodge  my 
friend  Fordyce  for  the  wedding  and  his  best  man  is 
coming  too — at  least,  so  he  tells  me.  They  are  feather- 
brained, these  young  fellows." 

Mrs.  Somerville's  knowledge  was  hot  within  her,  and 
she  turned  over  in  her  mind  how  she  might  begin  to 
unfold  it  without  committing  herself. 

"It  will  not  be  a  large  affair,"  continued  he,  "no  one 
but  myself  and  Mr.  Fullarton  and  a  handful  of  Fordyce's 
relatives;  the  bride  makes  as  much  pother  about  her 
bereavement  as  if  it  had  happened  yesterday.  Lady 
Fordyce  is  not  to  be  present.  I  think  she  has  taken  such 
a  poor  match  very  much  to  heart." 

"We  were  invited  specially  by  Miss  Raeburn," 
interposed  the  lady,  who  was  not  averse  to  playing  a 
trump  card  when  she  had  one. 

Cecilia  had  personally  asked  the  Inspector  to  the 
kirk,  and  had,  perforce,  made  up  her  mind  to  the  natural 
consequence  in  the  shape  of  his  wife;  he  had  been 
Gilbert's  friend,  and  he  felt  that  his  presence  would 
help  her  through  the  ordeal. 

"Then  you  will  be  of  the  bride's  party,"  observed 
Barclay,  looking  superior. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Somerville,  settling  herself 
snugly  against  the  back  of  her  chair,  "we  shall — if  there 
is  any  bride  at  all." 

He  looked  at  her  interrogatively. 

"I  said,  if  there  is  any  bride  at  all,  Mr.  Barclay;  and 
for  that  matter,  I  may  add,  if  there  is  any  wedding 
either." 


262  THE  INTERLOPER 

"What  is  to  hinder  the  wedding?  My  dear  Mrs. 
Somerville,  you  puzzle  me." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  slowly  up  and 
down,  "you  are  right  to  ask,  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
Mr.  Speid  may  hinder  the  wedding." 

"You  are  speaking  in  riddles,"  said  the  lawyer.  "I 
may  be  dull,  but  I  cannot  follow  you." 

"If  I  tell  what  I  know,  you  will  get  me  into  trouble," 
she  said,  shaking  her  forefinger  at  him;  "there  is  no 
trusting  you  men." 

"Surely  you  will  make  an  exception  in  my  case! 
What  have  I  done  to  merit  your  distrust  ?" 

"Many  shocking  things,  I  have  no  doubt,"  she  replied, 
archly. 

"Ma'am,  you  are  cruel ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  languish- 
ing look.  He  could  have  beaten  her,  for  he  was  writhing 
with  internal  curiosity. 

"Well,  well;  do  not  take  it  so  to  heart,"  said  she,  "and 
promise  that  you  will  not  betray  me.  Yesterday,  after 
breakfast,  a  disreputable  person,  a  Mrs.  Stirk,  who 
seems  to  be  known  about  here — I  know  nothing  about 
her — asked  to  speak  to  the  Captain.  I  was  sitting  at 
the  breakfast-table,  but  the  door  was  open,  so  what 
they  said  was  forced  upon  me;  really  forced  upon  me, 
Mr.  Barclay.  Mrs.  Stirk  said  that  she  had  seen  Miss 
Raeburn  and  that  she  was  crying — it  was  a  very  im- 
probable story — and  that  she  was  breaking  her  heart  for 
Mr.  Speid ;  she  had  the  impudence  to  tell  the  Captain 
that  he  should  write  and  bring  him  home." 

Barclay's  eyes  were  almost  starting  out  of  his 
head. 

"You  may  well  look  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Somerville, 
"but  what  will  you  say  when  I  tell  you  he  has  done  it? 
And  because  a  fishwife  told  him,  too !  I  let  him  know 
what  an  impudent  old  baggage  I  thought  her,  and  I  got 
no  thanks  for  my  pains,  I  assure  you !" 

The  lady's  voice  had  risen  with  each  word. 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE  HAS  SCRUPLES       263 

"Written  to  Speid?  Impossible!  How  does  he 
know  where  to  find  him?" 

"Miss  Robertson  is  to  send  the  letter.  There  will  be 
no  wedding  yet,  as  I  tell  you." 

"He  cannot  get  home;  at  any  rate,  it  is  very  doubt- 
ful," said  the  lawyer,  counting  on  his  fingers,  "for,  by 
the  time  he  reaches  here,  Fordyce  will  be  a  married 
man.  And  he  will  not  stop  the  marriage,  if  he  comes. 
Miss  Raeburn  would  never  dare  to  give  Fordyce  the 
slip  now,  for  all  her  high-and-mighty  ways." 

"But  the  Captain  has  written  to  her  too,  so  she  will 
have  plenty  of  time  to  make  up  her  mind.  Look  at 
the  letter  on  the  mantelpiece,  waiting  to  be  taken  to 
Fullarton.  He  put  it  there  when  he  went  out." 

Barclay  sat  staring  at  the  missive  and  arranging  his 
ideas.  He  wondered  how  soon  he  could  escape  and  send 
news  of  what  he  had  heard  to  Fordyce;  he  hesitated  to 
hurry  away  at  once,  for  he  had  not  been  to  see  Mrs. 
Somerville  for  a  long  time,  and  he  knew  he  was  expected 
to  sit  with  her,  as  he  generally  did,  for  at  least  an  hour. 
One  thing  was  certain;  that  letter  on  the  mantelpiece 
should  not  reach  Cecilia  if  he  could  help  it.  The  other 
had  gone  beyond  recall,  but  he  doubted  it  getting  into 
Speid's  hands  in  time  to  do  much  harm.  Meantime, 
there  was  nothing  like  prompt  action. 

"  It  is  rather  curious  that  I  should  be  going  to  Fullarton 
to-day;  I  am  on  my  way  there  at  this  moment.  I  had 
meant  to  make  you  a  long  visit  to-morrow,  but  I  could 
not  resist  the  temptation  of  turning  in  as  I  passed  this 
door  just  now.  Suppose  I  were  to  carry  the  letter? 
No  good  will  come  of  it,  I  am  sure,  but,  if  the  Captain 
wishes  it  to  go,  go  it  must.  Can  you  not  persuade  him 
to  think  better  of  it?" 

"Indeed,  if  he  heard  you  had  been  here  on  your  way 
to  Fullarton  and  I  had  not  sent  it,  he  would  be  annoyed. 
But  how  am  I  to  forgive  you  for  such  a  niggardly  visit  ? 
You  have  hardly  been  here  five  minutes." 


264  THE  INTERLOPER 

"  By  allowing  me  to  pay  you  a  liberal  one  to-morrow," 
replied  the  astute  Barclay.  "I  can  then  assure  you  of 
the  safety  of  the  letter.  What  am  I  to  do?  Give  me 
all  directions." 

"You  are  to  hand  it  to  Mr.  Fullarton  and  ask  him  to 
address  it  and  send  it  to  Miss  Raeburn.  It  is  a  very 
queer  business,  is  it  not?" 

"It  will  smooth  down.  I  attach  no  importance  at  all 
to  it,"  replied  he. 

"You  are  mighty  cool  about  it,  seeing  that  Mr. 
Fordyce  is  such  a  friend." 

"It  can  come  to  nothing,"  said  he. 

He  was  determined  she  should  not  suspect  his  feelings, 
which  were,  in  reality,  tinged  with  dismay.  If  Speid 
should  baffle  them  still !  The  letter  might  reach  him  in 
time  and  he  might  easily  act  upon  it.  A  torrent  of 
silent  abuse  was  let  loose  in  his  heart  against  Granny 
Stirk.  He  had  hated  her  roundly  for  some  time,  and 
now  he  would  have  given  anything  to  be  able  to  turn 
her  off  the  Whanland  estate  altogether.  He  promised 
himself  that  he  would  see  what  could  be  done  when  this 
affair  of  Fordyce's  marriage  was  off  his  mind. 

"Mr.  Fordyce  should  thank  me  for  warning  you," 
said  Mrs.  Somerville;  "if  he  has  any  sense  he  will  hurry 
on  the  wedding-day  after  this.  Whatever  happens,  do 
not  betray  me !" 

A  look  in  her  face  suggested  to  him  that  she  might,  in 
her  heart,  suspect  what  he  had  in  his  mind.  He  would 
make  sure. 

"I  suppose  I  dare  not  delay  this  for  a  day  or  two?" 
he  said,  tentatively,  looking  from  her  to  the  letter. 

"Oh,  no!  no!"  she  cried,  in  alarm.  "Oh!  what 
would  happen  if  anyone  found  out  that  I  had  told 
you?" 

"I  am  only  joking,"  he  laughed,  much  relieved, 
"pray,  pray  don't  upset  yourself,  ma'am." 

"I  really  do  not  know  whether  I  have  not  done  sadly 


MRS.  SOMERVILLE  HAS  SCRUPLES       265 

wrong  in  speaking,"  said  she,  turning  her  eyes  down. 
"I  have  many  scruples.  My  name  must  never,  never 
be  mentioned." 

"You  insult  me,  Mrs.  Somerville,  when  you  talk  in 
that  way.  Your  name  is  sacred  to  me,  as  it  has  ever 
been,  and  your  action  is  most  timely,  most  obliging. 
I  only  regret  that  your  own  wishes  forbid  my  telling 
Fordyce  of  your  kind  interest  in  him — in  us,  I  should 
say,  for  I  identify  myself  with  my  friends.  I  am  nothing 
if  not  true.  You  surely,  of  all  people,  can  give  me  that 
character." 

Playfulness  returned  to  her. 

"Come,  come,"  she  said,  "you  may  go  away.  I 
shall  not  tell  you  what  I  think  for  fear  of  making  you 
vain  ! ' ' 

Barclay  left  the  house  with  the  precious  letter  in  his 
pocket;  he  had  come  out  that  afternoon  with  no  in- 
tention of  going  anywhere  near  Fullarton.  On  reaching 
his  own  front  door  he  banged  it  so  heartily  with  the 
knocker  that  his  maidservant  felt  her  heart  thump  too. 
She  came  running  to  answer  the  summons. 

"Order  round  the  chaise  immediately,"  he  cried, 
"and  see  that  the  fire  is  kept  in  till  I  Come  back !" 

As  he  stood  at  the  door,  waiting  for  his  conveyance  to 
be  brought,  he  saw  the  strange  one  belonging  to  Captain 
Somerville  enter  the  street  on  its  homeward  way.  He 
ran  to  the  gate  which  opened  on  the  yard  behind  his 
house. 

"  Be  quick,  can't  you  ! "  he  roared  to  the  man  harness- 
ing the  horse. 

What  he  feared  he  knew  not,  but  the  sight  of  the 
Inspector's  plaided  body  sitting  under  the  retrograde 
hood  of  his  carriage,  like  an  owl  in  a  hollow  tree,  made 
him  long  to  be  clear  of  the  town. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

ALEXANDER    BARCLAY    DOES    HIS    BEST 

THOUGH  Barclay  had  no  intention  of  allowing  the 
letter  he  carried  to  reach  its  final  destination,  he  could 
not  venture  to  stop  its  course  till  it  had  passed  Fullar- 
ton's  hands.  He  was  too  much  afraid  that  Somerville 
and  Fullarton  might  meet  within  the  next  few  days. 
The  mail  office  should  be  responsible  for  its  loss,  if  that 
loss  were  ever  discovered;  a  contingency  which  he 
doubted  strongly.  He  found  it  exceedingly  annoying  to 
be  obliged  to  take  this  farcical  drive  on  such  a  chilly 
afternoon,  but  Prudence  demanded  the  sacrifice  and  he 
humoured  her,  like  a  wise  man.  Fordyce's  obligations 
to  him  were  becoming  colossal. 

He  found  Fullarton  in  his  library  and  explained  that 
he  was  on  his  way  home.  He  had  looked  in  in  passing, 
he  said,  to  ask  him  to  address  a  letter  which  Captain 
Somerville  had  given  him  for  Miss  Raeburn.  He  was 
rather  hurried,  and  would  not  send  his  carriage  to  the 
stables;  if  the  letter  were  directed  at  once,  he  would 
take  it  with  him  and  leave  it  at  the  mail  office,  should 
it  still  be  open.  Robert  was  not  in  the  humour  either 
for  gossip  or  business  and  he  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
Barclay  so  easily.  He  took  up  his  pen  at  once.  In 
five  minutes  the  lawyer  was  on  his  return  road  to 
Kaims. 

The  mail  office  was  closed,  as  he  knew  it  would  be  at 
that  time  in  the  evening,  and  he  brought  his  prize 
home;  to-morrow,  though  he  would  take  several  letters 
there  in  person,  it  would  not  be  among  their  number. 

266 


ALEXANDER  BARCLAY  DOES  HIS  BEST    267 

In  its  place  would  be  one  addressed  by  himself  to  the 
bride-elect  and  containing  a  formal  congratulation  on 
her  marriage.  Should  inquiry  arise,  it  would  be  found 
that  he  had  despatched  a  letter  bearing  her  name  on 
that  day.  It  was  best  that  the  track  should  lose  itself 
on  the  further  side  of  the  mail  office ;  the  rest  was  in  the 
hands  of  Providence.  It  was  a  badly-patched  business, 
but  it  was  the  neatest  work  he  could  put  together  at 
such  short  notice. 

When  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed  and  the  house 
was  quiet,  the  lawyer  locked  himself  into  his  dining- 
room,  where  a  snug  little  mahogany  table  with  a  sug- 
gestive i  load  of  comforts  stood  ready  by  the  arm  of 
his  easy-chair.  He  sat  down  and  took  from  his  pocket 
the  letter  he  had  carried  about  all  the  afternoon,  reading 
it  through  carefully.  As  he  refreshed  himself  with 
the  port  he  had  poured  out  he  counted  again  on  his 
fingers.  But  there  was  no  use  in  counting;  he  could 
come  to  no  conclusion,  for  it  rested  purely  with  accident 
to  decide  how  soon  Captain  Somerville's  communication 
should  reach  Gilbert.  If  there  were  no  delays,  if  he 
were  at  Madrid  or  at  some  place  within  reach  of  it,  if 
he  made  up  his  mind  on  the  spot,  if  he  could  find  means 
to  start  immediately  and  met  no  obstacle  on  the  way — 
it  was  possible  he  might  arrive  within  a  few  days  of  the 
wedding.  Then,  everything  would  depend  upon  Cecilia; 
and  it  would  need  almost  superhuman  courage  for  a 
woman  to  draw  back  in  such  circumstances.  He  had 
done  a  great  thing  in  possessing  himself  of  the  paper  he 
held.  Little  as  he  knew  her,  he  suspected  her  to  be  a 
person  of  some  character,  and  there  was  no  guessing 
what  step  she  might  take,  were  she  given  time  to  think. 
"Hope  for  the  best  and  prepare  for  the  worst."  He 
was  doing  this  thoroughly. 

He  emptied  his  glass,  and,  with  the  gold  pencil  on  his 
fob-chain,  made  a  rough  note  in  his  pocket-book  of  the 
contents  of  Somerville's  letter;  then  he  crushed  the 


268  THE  INTERLOPER 

epistle  into  a  ball  and  stuffed  it  into  the  red  heart  of  the 
coals  with  the  poker,  holding  it  down  till  it  was  no  more 
than  a  flutter  of  black  ash.  This  over,  he  wrote  Fordyce 
an  account  of  what  he  had  done.  "I  am  not  really 
apprehensive,"  he  concluded,  "but,  hurry  the  wedding, 
if  you  can  do  so  on  any  pretext,  and  never  say  that 
Alexander  Barclay  did  not  do  his  best  for  you." 

Crauford  was  at  Fordyce  Castle  when  the  news 
reached  him  and  it  gave  him  a  shock.  His  ally  seemed 
to  be  out-running  all  discretion  in  his  zeal;  to  stop  a 
letter  was  such  a  definitely  improper  thing  to  do  that  it 
took  his  breath  away.  Not  that  it  was  his  fault,  he 
assured  himself  as  he  pondered  on  it,  and  it  was  too 
late  to  make  any  remonstrance ;  besides  which,  as  he  had 
not  personally  committed  the  act,  he  had  nothing  with 
which  to  blame  himself.  Things  looked  serious.  In 
a  few  days  Speid  might  be  on  his  way  home.  He  would 
write  to  Cecilia  on  the  spot;  nay,  he  would  go  to  Edin- 
burgh himself  and  persuade  her  to  hasten  the  wedding. 
He  would  invent  a  pretext.  It  was  curious  that,  while 
Barclay's  act  struck  him  as  a  breach  of  gentlemanlike 
behaviour,  it  never  struck  him  from  Cecilia's  point  of 
view,  though  it  was  clear  she  did  not  want  to  marry 
him  and  that  she  did  want  to  marry  Speid.  If  it  had 
struck  him  he  would  scarcely  have  understood.  She 
was  behaving  most  foolishly  and  against  her  own 
interests;  she  did  not  seem  to  realise  that  he  had  the 
warmest  feelings  for  her,  that  he  was  prepared  to  make 
her  happy  and  give  her  everything  she  could  desire. 
So  great  was  the  complacency — personal  and  hereditary 
— in  which  he  had  been  enveloped  since  his  birth,  that 
he  could  not  see  another  obvious  truth  which  stared 
him  in  the  face:  namely,  that  he  whose  wife  has  married 
one  man  and  loves  another  stands  in  a  place  which 
ought  to  terrify  a  demi-god.  If  he  hated  Speid  now, 
he  might  have  to  hate  him  still  more  in  time.  In  his 
reply  to  Barclay  he  did  not  remonstrate  with  him; 


ALEXANDER  BARCLAY  DOES  HIS  BEST    269 

what  was  the  use  of  doing  so  now  that  the  thing  was 
over? 

Heartily  did  he  wish  the  wedding  hurried  on  for  many 
reasons ;  one  of  them  was  that  his  mother,  who  had  taken 
to  her  bed  on  hearing  of  his  engagement,  had  now  arisen, 
though  her  health,  she  said,  would  not  admit  of  her 
leaving  Fordyce  Castle  or  being  present  at  the  ceremony. 
Nor  were  the  protests  of  her  family  very  sincere.  Agneta 
and  Mary,  who  were  to  go  to  their  uncle,  were 
looking  forward  feverishly  to  their  first  taste  of 
emancipation,  and  Sir  Thomas,  having  had  experi- 
ence of  his  wife  when  in  contact  with  the  outer 
world,  thought  with  small  gusto  of  repeating  it.  He 
had  insisted  that  his  daughters  should  go  to  Fullarton, 
and  no  one  but  himself  knew  what  he  had  under- 
gone, Lady  Fordyce  being  furious  with  her  brother 
for  having,  as  she  said,  arranged  the  marriage. 
Everyone  agreed  that  her  decision  was  a  merciful 
one  for  all  concerned,  and,  while  Sir  Thomas  again 
"found  it  convenient"  to  sit  up  in  his  study  till 
the  cocks  crew,  the  two  girls  were  supported  by  the 
prospect  of  the  coming  excitement. 

Agneta  and  Crauford  kept  much  together;  but, 
though  she  was  the  only  person  to  whom  he  could  speak 
with  any  freedom,  he  did  not  tell  her  what  he  had  heard 
from  Barclay.  He  was  a  hero  to  his  sister;  and  a  hero's 
bride  is  conventionally  supposed  to  have  eyes  for  no 
one  but  himself.  Existing  conventions  were  quite  good 
enough  for  him. 

His  engagement  was  scarcely  a  blow  to  Lady  Maria 
Milwright;  for  though,  as  has  been  said,  he  was  a  hero  in 
her  eyes  also,  she  was  so  simple  in  character  and  so 
diffident  that  she  had  never  even  speculated  on  his 
notice.  Ideas  of  the  sort  were  foreign  to  her.  But, 
as  her  fingers  embroidered  the  handkerchief-case  which 
she  sent  him  as  a  wedding-gift,  she  was  overwhelmed 
with  Miss  Cecilia  Raeburn's  good  fortune.  Agneta  was 


270  THE  INTERLOPER 

with  him  in  his  room  when  he  unpacked  the  little  parcel 
and  read  the  letter  it  contained. 

"I  consider  that  very  kind  of  Lady  Maria;  very  kind 
indeed,"  he  said.  He  did  not  only  consider  it  kind,  he 
considered  it  forgiving  and  magnanimous. 

•  "  I  wonder  if  you  will  be  as  happy  as  if  you  had  married 
her?"  said  his  sister,  suddenly.  "Is  Miss  Raeburn 
devoted  to  you,  Crauford?" 

The  question  took  him  rather  unawares. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  inquired  he. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Only  she  refused  you  twice,  you 
know,  brother." 

" Not  twice,"  said  he.  "She  gave  me  great  encourage- 
ment the  second  time." 

"I  am  sorry  it  is  not  to  be  a  grand  wedding  with  lots 
of  fine  company.  I  should  have  enjoyed  that.  But, 
all  the  same,  it  will  be  a  great  change  for  me  and  Mary. 
Miss  Raeburn  said  we  were  to  choose  our  own  dresses. 
Do  you  know,  we  have  never  chosen  anything  for  our- 
selves before?" 

"I  am  going  to  Edinburgh  to-morrow  or  the  next  day 
to  order  my  own  clothes,"  said  he.  "I  have  chosen 
stuffs  already.  I  shall  wear  claret-coloured  cloth  with 
a  buff  waistcoat  and  a  satin  stock.  That  ought  to 
look  well,  I  think." 

"We  are  to  wear  white,  and  white  fur  tippets  and 
Leghorn  bonnets  with  pink  rosettes.  Papa  gave  Mary 
the  money  to  pay  for  what  we  chose,  for  mamma  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  a  good  thing,  for  she 
would  not  have  given  us  nearly  so  much.  Will  there 
really  be  no  one  but  ourselves  and  Uncle  Fullarton  at 
the  wedding,  Crauford?" 

"There  will  be  our  cousin  Frederick  Burnfield,  who 
is  to  be  best  man,  and  my  friend  Mr.  Barclay  of  Kaims. 
He  is  the  Fullarton  man  of  business  and  a  mighty 
pleasant  fellow.  Frederick  and  I  are  to  stay  at  his 
house  for  the  wedding.  Then  there  are  a  Captain  and 


ALEXANDER  BARCLAY  DOES  HIS  BEST    271 

Mrs.  Somerville  whom  Miss  Raeburn" — he  always  spoke 
of  Cecilia  as  "Miss  Raeburn,"  even  to  his  family — "has 
invited,  I  cannot  understand  why;  they  are  dull  people, 
and  the  lady  is  not  over  genteel  in  her  connections,  I 
believe.  Morphie  Kirk  is  a  very  small  place  for  a 
wedding,  but  Miss  Raeburn  has  made  a  particular  point 
of  being  married  there.  I  often  accompanied  her  to  it 
when  Lady  Eliza  was  alive;  and  I  can  guess  (though  she 
has  not  told  me)  that  she  feels  the  suitability  of  our 
being  married  there  for  that  reason.  It  is  a  pretty 
feeling  on  her  part,"  said  Crauford. 

Her  fancy  for  Speid  could  not  really  go  very  deep,  he 
reflected,  as  this  little  sentiment  of  hers  came  into  his 
mind.  The  meddlesome  old  woman  who  had  brought 
such  a  story  to  Captain  Somerville  might  have  known 
how  hysterical  women  were  when  there  was  a  question 
of  weddings.  Cecilia  simply  did  not  know  her  own 
mind. 

He  would  see  her  in  Edinburgh  and  do  his  best  to 
persuade  her  to  settle  a  new  date  for  their  marriage,  even 
should  it  be  only  a  few  days  earlier  than  the  old  one. 
And  he  would  buy  her  some  jewels — they  would  help  on 
his  request. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    SKY   FALLS    ON    GILBERT 

GILBERT  SPEID  sat  in  the  house  just  outside  Madrid, 
which  had  represented  home  to  him  for  most  of  the 
eighteen  months  of  his  sojourn  in  Spain;  he  was  newly 
returned  from  Granada.  It  had  been  Mr.  Speid's 
custom  to  pass  a  part  of  each  year  there,  and  it  was 
there  that  he  had,  according  to  his  wish,  been  buried. 
Gilbert  had  gone  to  look  at  the  grave,  for  the  decent 
keeping  of  which  he  paid  a  man  a  small  yearly  sum,  and 
had  found  his  money  honestly  earned;  then,  having 
satisfied  himself  on  that  point,  he  had  wandered  about 
in  haunts  familiar  to  him  in  his  youth  and  early  man- 
hood. It  was  not  three  years  since  he  had  set  foot  in 
them  last,  and  he  was  not  much  more  than  thirty-two 
years  old,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  looked  at  them 
across  a  gulf  filled  with  age  and  time.  He  returned  to 
Madrid  wondering  why  he  had  left  it,  and  finding  a 
certain  feeling  of  home-coming  in  his  pleasure  at  seeing 
his  horses. 

He  made  no  pretence  of  avoiding  his  fellow-creatures, 
and  no  effort  to  meet  them;  and  as,  though  he  spoke 
perfect  Spanish,  he  had  always  been  a  silent  man,  there 
was  little  difference  in  his  demeanour.  But  it  was 
universally  admitted  among  old  acquaintances  that  his 
Scottish  life  had  spoiled  him.  He  rode  a  great  deal  and 
frequented  the  same  company ;  and  he  would  often  stroll 
down  to  the  fencing-school,  where  he  had  learned  so 
much,  to  practice  with  his  old  master  or  with  any  new 
light  which  had  risen  among  the  foils  since  he  left 

272 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  273 

Spain.  He  felt  the  pressing  need  of  settling  to  some 
definite  aim  in  life,  but  he  put  off  the  trouble  of  con- 
sidering it  from  week  to  week  and  from  month  to  month. 

Miss  Hersey  wrote  only  occasionally,  for  her  sight  was 
not  good,  and  the  world  did  not  then  fly  to  pens  and 
paper  on  the  smallest  pretext  -as  it  does  now.  A  letter 
was  still  something  of  a  solemnity,  even  to  the  educated. 
Also,  Miss  Hersey  thought  that  the  sooner  he  forgot 
Cecilia  the  better  it  would  be,  and  the  sooner  he  would 
return.  She  hoped  he  would  bring  back  a  wife  with 
him — always  provided  she  were  not  a  Roman  Catholic. 
She  had  told  him  of  Lady  Eliza's  accident  and  death 
and  of  Cecilia's  removal  to  Fullarton,  adding  that  she 
understood  Miss  Raeburn  was  to  remain  there  until 
some  arrangement  could  be  made  for  her  future;  Mr. 
Fullarton  was  said  to  have  promised  Lady  Eliza,  on  her 
deathbed,  that  he  would  act  as  guardian. 

It  took  nearly  a  month  for  a  letter  from  Scotland  to 
reach  Madrid,  and  Gilbert  had  asked  a  friend  who  lived 
near  to  take  charge  of  such  correspondence  as  might 
come  for  him  within  a  fortnight  of  his  return  from 
Granada.  He  had  only  reached  home  late  on  the  pre- 
vious night,  and  he  was  now  expecting  the  packet  to 
be  brought  to  him. 

He  had  slept  long,  being  tired,  and  when  he  emerged 
from  his  room  the  sun  was  brilliant.  He  walked  out  on 
the  whitewashed  veranda  which  ran  round  the  upper 
story  of  the  house,  and  looked  out  on  the  March  land- 
scape which  the  almond-blossom  was  already  decorating. 
The  ground  sloped  away  before  him,  and,  on  the  north- 
west, the  Sierra  de  Guardarama  cut  into  the  sky.  The 
pomegranates  had  not  yet  begun  to  flower,  but  a  bush 
which  stood  near  the  walls  cast  the  shadow  of  its  leaves 
and  stems  against  the  glaring  white.  In  Scotland,  the 
buds  would  scarcely  yet  be  formed  on  the  trees ;  but  the 
air  would  be  full  of  the  fresh  smell  of  earth  and  that  stir 
of  life,  that  first  invisible  undercurrent  of  which  the 


274  THE  INTERLOPER 

body  is  conscious  through  a  certain  sixth  sense,  would 
be  vibrating.  The  Lour  would  be  running  hard  and 
the  spring  tides  setting  up  the  coast.  He  stood  looking, 
with  fixed  eyes,  across  the  almond-blossom  to  a  far-off 
country  that  he  saw  lying,  wide  and  gray,  in  the  north, 
with  its  sea-voice  calling,  calling.  His  servant's  foot- 
step behind  him  on  the  stones  made  him  turn;  he  was 
holding  out  a  little  packet  of  letters. 

"These  have  been  sent  from  Don  Balthazar's  house," 
said  the  man,  in  Spanish,  indicating  a  few  tied  together 
with  string.  "The  others  were  at  the  mail-office  this 
morning." 

Gilbert  sat  down  on  the  parapet  of  the  veranda  and 
turned  over  the  letters;  those  that  had  come  from  his 
friend's  house  must  have  been  awaiting  him  a  week, 
possibly  longer.  There  were  two  which  interested  him, 
one  from  Miss  Hersey  and  one  directed  in  a  hand  he  had 
seen  before  but  could  not  now  identify;  it  was  writing 
that  he  connected  with  Scotland.  Miss  Robertson's 
letter  was  among  those  which  Don  Balthazar  had  kept, 
and  he  opened  it  first.  The  old  lady  generally  reserved 
any  tidings  of  Cecilia  for  the  last  paragraph,  and  he 
forced  himself  to  read  steadily  from  the  beginning;  for, 
like  many  high-strung  people,  he  found  an  odd  attraction 
in  such  little  bits  of  self-torture. 

Half-way  down  the  last  sheet  he  dropped  the  paper  as 
though  he  were  shot  and  the  blood  ran  to  his  face  in  a 
wave.  It  contained  the  news  of  Cecilia  Raeburn's 
engagement;  she  was  to  marry  Crauford  Fordyce,  and 
the  wedding  was  fixed  for  the  middle  of  April. 

He  seized  the  letter  again  and  glutted  his  eyes  with  the 
hateful  words. 

"You  will  cease  to  fret  about  her  now,"  concluded 
Miss  Hersey  simply,  "and  that  will  be  a  good  thing.  I 
hear  they  are  to  live  on  a  property  which  belongs  to 
Sir  Thomas  Fordyce  in  Roxburghshire.  See  and  get 
you  a  wife  somewhere  else,  dear  Gilbert,  but  not  a 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  275 

Papist.  Caroline  and  I  would  think  very  ill  of 
that." 

It  was  some  time  before  he  strung  up  his  mind  to 
read  the  rest  of  the  correspondence  strewn  about  his 
feet,  but,  when  he  broke  the  seal  of  the  other  Scottish 
letter,  he  looked  first  at  the  end.  It  was  signed  "Wm. 
Somerville,"  and  consisted  of  four  closely-written  pages. 
Before  he  came  to  the  last  line  he  sprang  up,  feeling  as 
though  the  sky  had  fallen  on  him.  He  ran  through  his 
room  into  the  passage,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice 
for  his  servant ;  the  Spaniard  came  flying  up  three  steps 
at  a  time,  his  dark  face  pale.  He  found  Gilbert  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  veranda;  the  scattered  letters  were 
blowing  about,  for  a  sudden  puff  of  wind  had  risen. 

"Pack  up!"  he  shouted;  "get  my  things  ready!  I 
am  going  to  England!" 

"But  Senor " 

"Go  on!  Begin!  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to  England 
to-night — sooner,  if  possible !  Bring  me  my  purse. 
Send  to  Don  Balthazar  and  tell  him  that  I  am  going  in  a 
few  hours." 

He  took  the  purse  from  the  astonished  man,  and  in 
another  minute  was  in  the  stable  and  slipping  a  bridle 
over  one  of  the  horse's  heads,  while  the  groom  put  on  the 
saddle  and  buckled  the  girths.  He  threw  himself  into 
it  and  galloped  straight  to  the  nearest  inn  and  posting- 
house  in  the  town,  for  the  carriage  which  had  brought 
him  back  on  the  previous  night  belonged  to  a  small 
post -master  in  Toledo  and  could  be  taken  no  further 
than  Madrid 

Here  he  had  a  piece  of  disguised  good  fortune,  for, 
though  he  could  get  neither  cattle  nor  conveyance  that 
day,  a  Spanish  Government  official  was  starting  for 
France  early  on  the  morrow,  and  was  anxious  to  hear  of 
some  gentleman  who  might  occupy  the  vacant  seat  in 
the  carriage  he  had  hired  and  share  the  expenses  of  the 
road.  In  those  days,  when  people  travelled  armed,  any 


276  THE  INTERLOPER 

addition  to  a  party  was  to  be  welcomed.  It  only  re- 
mained for  him  to  seek  his  friend  Don  Balthazar,  and, 
through  him,  to  procure  an  introduction  to  the  traveller. 
Their  ways  would  lie  together  as  far  as  Tours. 

Don  Balthazar  was  a  friend  of  his  youth;  a  lean, 
serious-looking  young  man  who  had  turned  from  a 
luxuriant  crop  of  wild  oats  and  married  a  woman  with 
whom  he  was  in  love  at  this  moment,  a  year  after 
Gilbert  had  gone  to  Scotland.  He  had  never  seen 
Speid  so  much  excited,  and  he  succeeded  in  calming 
him  as  the  two  talked  over  the  details  of  the  journey. 
They  made  out  that  it  would  take  ten  days  to  reach 
Tours,  allowing  three  extra  ones  for  any  mishap  or 
delays  which  the  crossing  of  the  Pyrenees  might  occasion. 
In  France,  the  roads  would  be  better  and  travelling 
would  improve.  Twenty-three  days  would  see  him  in 
Scotland;  setting  out  on  the  morrow,  the  fourteenth  of 
March,  he  could  reasonably  expect  to  get  out  of  the 
Edinburgh  coach  at  Blackport  on  the  sixth  of  April. 
The  wedding  was  not  to  take  place  until  the  tenth.  He 
did  not  confide  in  Don  Balthazar;  he  merely  spoke  of 
"urgent  business." 

"Of  course  it  is  a  woman,"  said  Dona  Mercedes  to  her 
husband  that  night. 

"  But  he  never  used  to  care  about  women,"  replied  he, 
stroking  his  long  chin;  "at  least — 

"  Is  there  any  man  who  does  not  care  about  women  ? " 
exclaimed  the  lady,  twirling  the  laced  handkerchief  she 
held;  "bring  me  one  and  I  will  give  you  whatever  you 
like!" 

"That  would  be  useless,  if  he  had  seen  you,"  replied 
Don  Balthazar  gallantly. 

Dona  Mercedes  threw  the  handkerchief  at  him  and 
both  immediately  forgot  Gilbert  Speid. 

It  was  as  if  Gilbert  lived,  moved,  and  breathed  in  the 
centre  of  a  whirlwind  until  he  found  himself  sitting  in 
the  carriage  by  the  Spanish  official,  with  Madrid  drop- 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  277 

ping  behind  him  in  the  haze  of  morning.  Inaction  was 
restful  while  he  could  see  the  road  rolling  .by  under  the 
wheels;  every  furlong  was  a  step  nearer  his  goal.  His 
whole  mind  had  been,  so  to  speak,  turned  upside  down 
by  Captain  Somerville's  pen.  He  was  no  longer  the 
lover  who  had  divided  himself  from  his  mistress  because 
honour  demanded  it,  but  a  man  who,  as  the  sailor 
said,  was  leaving  a  woman  in  the  lurch;  that  woman 
being  the  one  for  whom  he  would  cheerfully  have  died 
four  times  a  day  any  time  these  last  two  years. 

The  possibility  of  arriving  too  late  made  him  shudder ; 
he  turned  cold  as  he  remembered  how  nearly  he  had 
stayed  another  ten  days  in  Granada  vvhile  this  unforeseen 
news  lay  waiting  for  him  at  Don  Balthazar's  house. 
He  had  a  margin  of  some  days  to  his  credit,  should  any- 
thing check  his  journey,  and,  once  beyond  the  Pyrenees, 
progress  would  be  quicker.  If  delay  should  occur  on 
this  side  of  Toulouse,  he  could  there  separate  himself 
from  his  companion  and  drive  by  night  as  well  as  by 
day,  for  he  would  be  on  the  main  posting-road  through 
France. 

He  had  not  written  to  Cecilia.  He  would  travel 
nearly  as  fast  as  the  mail  and  a  letter  would  precede  his 
arrival  only  by  a  very  short  space.  There  had  been  no 
time,  in  the  hurried  moments  of  yesterday,  to  write 
anything  to  her  which  could  have  the  weight  of  his 
spoken  words;  and,  were  his  arrival  expected,  he  feared 
the  pressure  that  Fordyce,  and  possibly  Fullarton, 
would  bring  to  bear  upon  her  before  she  had  the  support 
of  his  presence.  He  did  not  know  what  influences 
might  be  surrounding  her,  what  difficulties  hedging  her 
about;  his  best  course  was  simply  to  appear  without 
warning,  take  her  away  and  marry  her.  He  might 
even  bring  her  back  to  Spain.  But  that  was  a  detail 
to  be  considered  afterwards. 

He  remembered  the  sudden  admission  he  had  made 
to  Granny  Stirk  in  her  cottage,  and  told  himself  that 


278  THE  INTERLOPER 

some  unseen  divinity  must  have  stood  by,  prompting 
him.  How  little  did  he  suspect  of  the  sequel  to  that 
day  on  which  he  had  caught  Lady  Eliza's  mare;  how 
unconscious  he  was  of  the  friend  standing  before  him  in 
the  person  of  the  little  old  woman  who  offered  him  her 
apron  to  dry  his  hands  and  said  "haste  ye  back"  as  he 
left  her  door.  He  had  written  her  a  few  lines,  directing 
her  to  go  to  Whanland  and  get  his  room  ready,  and 
adding  that  he  wished  his  return  kept  secret  from 
everyone  but  Jimmy,  who  was  to  meet  the  Edinburgh 
coach  at  Blackport  on  the  sixth  of  April.  He  had  no 
horses  in  Scotland  which  could  take  him  from  Blackport 
to  Whanland,  but  he  would  be  able  to  hire  some  sort 
of  conveyance  from  the  inn,  and,  on  the  road  home,  he 
could  learn  as  much  as  possible  of  what  was  happening 
from  the  lad.  His  letter  would,  in  all  probability, 
arrive  a  day  or  so  in  advance  of  himself,  and  Granny 
Stirk  would  have  time  to  send  her  grandson  to  meet  him 
and  make  her  own  preparations.  Though  the  Queen 
of  the  Cadgers  could  not  read,  Jimmy,  who  had  received 
some  elementary  schooling,  was  capable  of  deciphering 
his  simple  directions. 

It  was  eight  days  after  leaving  Madrid  that  the  fellow- 
travellers  parted  at  Tours,  having  met  with  no  delay 
beyond  the  repairing  of  a  wheel,  which  had  kept  them 
standing  in  a  wayside  village  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
the  almost  impracticable  nature  of  the  roads  in  the 
Pyrenees.  The  official  had  called  in  the  help  of  his 
Government  in  the  matter  of  post-horses  to  the  frontier, 
and  these,  though  often  miserable-looking  brutes,  were 
forthcoming  at  every  stage.  Owing  to  the  same  in- 
fluence, a  small  mounted  escort  awaited  them  as  they 
approached  the  mountains;  and  the  Spaniard's  servants, 
who  occupied  a  second  carriage  and  had  surfeited  them- 
selves with  tales — only  too  well  founded — of  murders 
and  robberies  committed  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
breathed  more  freely. 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  279 

It  was  with  rising  spirits  that  Speid  bade  his  com- 
panion farewell,  and,  from  the  window  of  the  inn  at 
which  they  had  passed  the  night,  watched  his  carriage 
roll  away  on  the  Paris  road;  he  had  hired  a  decent 
chaise,  which  was  being  harnessed  in  the  courtyard 
below  to  start  on  the  first  stage  of  its  route  to  Havre, 
and  he  hoped  to  embark  from  that  seaport  in  three 
days. 

Of  the  future  which  lay  beyond  his  arrival  at  Whan- 
land  he  scarcely  allowed  himself  to  think,  nor  did  he 
arrange  any  definite  plan  of  action.  Circumstances 
should  guide  him  completely  and  what  information  he 
could  get  from  Jimmy  Stirk.  He  had  no  doubt  at  all 
of  Cecilia's  courage,  once  they  should  meet,  and  he  felt 
that  in  him  which  must  sweep  away  every  opposition 
which  any  one  could  bring.  He  would  force  her  to  come 
with  him.  There  were  only  two  people  in  the  world — 
himself  and  the  woman  he  loved — and  he  was  ready, 
if  need  be,  to  go  to  the  very  altar  and  take  her  from  it. 
She  had  cried  out  and  the  echo  of  her  voice  had  reached 
him  in  far-away  Spain.  Now,  there  was  no  power  on 
earth  which  should  stand  before  him. 

So  he  went  on,  intent  on  nothing  but  the  end  of  his 
journey;  looking  no  further;  and  holding  back  from  his 
brain,  lest  it  should  o\  jnvhelm  him,  the  too-intoxicating 
thought  that,  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  she  might  be  his. 

When,  at  last,  from  a  point  of  rising  ground  a  few 
miles  from  the  seaboard,  he  saw  the  waters  of  the 
English  Channel,  his  heart  leaped.  He  drove  into 
Havre  just  at  sunset  on  the  evening  of  the  twenty-fifth 
of  March.  Six  days  later  he  was  in  London. 

He  had  hoped  to  reach  it  earlier,  but  it  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  he  was  able  to  get  a  passage  to 
Portsmouth;  he  had  crossed  to  England  in  a  wretched 
fishing-boat,  and  that  bad  weather,  predicted  on  the 
French  shore  and  only  risked  by  the  boat's  owner  for  a 
large  sum  of  money,  met  and  delayed  him. 


28o  THE  INTERLOPER 

He  saw  the  dark  mass  of  Edinburgh  Castle  rising 
from  the  lights  of  the  town  on  the  second  evening  after 
his  departure  from  London;  the  speech  which  sur- 
rounded the  coach,  as  it  drew  up,  made  him  realise, 
with  a  thrill,  that  now,  only  two  divisions  of  his  journey 
lay  between  him  and  Blackport — Blackport  where  he 
would  meet  Cecilia.  Next  morning  found  him  on  the 
road  to  Perth,  where  he  was  to  sleep  that  night. 

The  weather  was  cold  and  gusty  on  the  last  day  of  his 
travels,  and  the  Tay,  as  they  crossed  it  after  leaving 
Perth,  yellow  and  swollen;  but  the  familiar  wide  fields 
and  the  distant  wall  of  the  Grampians  stirred  his  heart 
with  their  promise.  The  road  ran  up  the  Vale  of  Strath- 
more,  northeast  of  the  Sidlaws ;  as  their  undulations  fell 
away  they  would  stretch  to  Kaims  and  the  sea,  and  he 
would  once  more  be  in  that  enchanted  spot  of  land 
where  the  North  Lour  ran  and  the  woods  of  Morphie 
unrolled  themselves  across  its  seaward  course. 

The  last  change  of  horses  was  at  Forfar;  from  there 
they  were  to  run  through  the  great  moor  of  Monrummon 
into  Blackport,  where  they  would  be  due  at  eight  o'clock. 
If  he  could  secure  anything  which  had  wheels  from  one 
of  the  posting-houses,  he  would  sleep  that  night  at 
Whanland. 

The  passengers  buttoned  their  coats  tightly  as  they 
went  forward,  for  the  weather  was  growing  worse  and 
the  wind  came  tearing  in  their  faces.  Before  darkness 
fell,  fringes  of  rain-cloud,  which  had  hung  all  day  over 
the  Grampians,  began  to  sweep  over  them.  The  horses 
laid  back  their  ears  as  heavy  drops,  mixed  with  hail, 
struck  them  in  sensitive  places  and  the  coachman's  hands 
were  stiff  on  the  reins  from  the  chill  water  running  off 
his  gloves.  Now  and  again  the  gale  raised  its  voice 
like  an  angry  woman,  and  the  road  reflected  the  lamps 
as  though  it  had  been  a  pond.  They  had  left  Forfar 
some  time  when  the  coachman,  in  the  darkness,  turned 
a  hard,  dripping  face  to  Gilbert, who  was  on  the  box-seat. 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  281 

"D'ye  hear  yon?"  he  said,  lifting  his  whip. 

Speid  leaned  his  head  sideways  and  was  conscious  of  a 
roar  above  the  voice  of  the  blast;  a  tossing  and  rolling 
sea  of  noise  in  the  air  which  he  thought  must  be  like  the 
sound  of  waves  closing  above  the  head  of  a  drowning 
man.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  trees  in  Monrummon. 

As  the  coach  plunged  in,  the  dark  ocean  of  wood 
swallowed  it  up,  and  it  began  to  rock  and  sway  on  one  of 
the  bad  roads  intersecting  the  moor.  The  smell  of  raw 
earth  and  wet  heather  was  mixed  with  the  strong  scent 
of  the  firs  that  laboured,  surged,  buffeted  overhead  in 
the  frenzy  of  the  wind.  The  burns  that,  in  places, 
crossed  their  road  had  now  become  turgid  torrents, 
dragging  away  soil  and  stones  in  their  rush. 

"It'll  na'  do  to  loss  oursel's  here,"  observed  the  coach- 
man. "Haud  up,  man!" 

The  last  exclamation  was  addressed  to  the  off  wheeler, 
who  had  almost  slipped  on  a  round  stone  laid  bare  by 
the  water  flaying  the  track.  The  only  inside  passenger, 
a  West-country  merchant  on  his  way  north,  let  down 
the  window  and  put  out  his  head,  to  draw  it  in  promptly, 
outraged  by  finding  himself  in  such  surroundings  and 
by  the  behaviour  of  the  elements  outside.  Such  things 
did  not  happen  in  Glasgow. 

It  was  when  they  were  on  the  middle  of  the  moor  that 
the  bed  of  a  burn,  steeper  than  any  they  had  yet  en- 
countered, crossed  their  way.  It  was  not  much  wider 
than  an  ordinary  ditch,  but  the  force  of  the  water 
driven  through  it  had  scored  the  bottom  deep,  for  the 
soil  was  soft  in  its  course.  The  coachman  had  his  team 
well  together  as  they  went  down  the  slope  to  it,  and 
Gilbert  watched  him,  roused  from  his  abstraction  by 
the  fascinating  knowledge  that  a  man  of  parts  was 
handling  the  reins.  The  feet  of  the  leaders  were  clear 
of  the  water  and  those  of  the  wheelers  washed  by  the 
red  swirl  in  the  burn's  bed,  when  the  air  seemed  to 
rush  more  quickly  a  few  yards  to  their  left,  and,  with  a 


282  THE  INTERLOPER 

crack  like  that  of  the  sky  splitting,  the  heavy  head  of 
a  fir-tree  came  tearing  downwards  through  its  fellows. 

The  terrified  horses  sprang  forward  up  the  steep 
ground;  the  coach  staggered  like  a  drunkard;  the  pole 
dipped,  rocking  upwards,  and  the  pole-chains  flashed 
in  the  light  of  the  swinging  lamps  as  it  snapped 
in  two. 

The  traces  held,  for  they  reached  the  further  side  al- 
most by  their  own  impetus,  and  the  guard  was  at  the 
leaders'  heads  before  the  Glasgow  merchant  had  time 
to  let  down  his  window,  and,  with  all  the  righteous 
violence  of  the  arm-chair  man,  to  launch  his  reproaches 
at  the  driver;  Gilbert  climbed  down  and  began  to  help 
the  guard  to  take  out  the  leaders.  The  coachman  sat 
quietly  in  his  place. 

"Well,  well;  we'll  just  need  to  bide  whaur  we  are," 
he  said,  as  the  swingle-trees  were  unhooked. 

By  the  light  of  the  lamps,  the  pole  was  found  to  be 
broken,  slantwise,  across  the  middle,  and  there  was 
nothing  for  the  passengers  to  do  but  make  the  best  of 
their  position  and  await  the  morning.  The  gale  con- 
tinued to  rage;  and,  though  the  guard  declared  it  possible 
to  lash  the  breakage  together  and  proceed  carefully  by 
daylight,  such  an  attempt  would  be  out  of  the  question 
in  the  state  of  the  roads,  while  the  storm  and  darkness 
lasted.  The  two  other  outside  passengers,  one  of  whom 
was  a  minister,  were  an  honest  pair  of  fellows,  and  they 
accepted  the  situation  as  befitted  men  of  sense. 

The  window  of  the  coach  went  down  and  the  Glasgow 
man's  head  appeared.  He  had  tied  up  his  face  in  a 
woollen  handkerchief  with  large  red  spots.  The  ends 
rose  above  his  head  like  rabbit's  ears. 

"You'll  take  me  to  the  end  of  my  journey  or  I'll  ken 
the  reason!"  he  shouted  to  the  little  group.  "I've 
paid  my  monev  to  get  to  Aberdeen  and  it's  there  I'm 
to  go!" 

Guard  and  coachman  smiled,  the  former  broadly  and 


THE  SKY  FALLS  ON  GILBERT  283 

the  latter  at  the  side  of  his  mouth.  Neither  said  any- 
thing. 

"My  name's  George  Anderson,  and  I'm  very  well 
acquaint  wi'  you!"  roared  the  inside  passenger  in  the 
voice  of  one  who  has  discovered  a  conspiracy. 

He  had  never  seen  any  of  the  party  till  that  morning, 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  that. 

"The  pole  is  broken,  sir.  You  can  see  it  for  yourself 
if  you  will  come  out,"  said  Gilbert,  going  up  to  the 
coach. 

"  Na,  thank  ye.     I'm  best  whaur  I  am,"  said  the  man. 

The  smile  now  extended  to  the  minister  and  his  com- 
panion, and,  at  sight  of  this,  the  merchant  burst  into 
fresh  wrath. 

"Am  I  to  be  kept  a'  the  night  in  this  place?"  he 
cried.  "I  warrant  ye,  I'll  have  the  lot  o'  ye  sorted  for 
this  when  I  get  to  Aberdeen!" 

"If  you  like  to  ride  one  of  the  leaders  into  Blackport, 
you  can,"  suggested  Gilbert,  with  a  sting  in  his  voice; 
"the  guard  is  going  with  the  mails  on  the  other." 

"Aye,  ye'd  best  do  that.  Ye'd  look  bonnie  riding 
into  the  town  wi'  yon  thing  on  your  head,"  said  the 
minister,  who  had  a  short  temper. 

The  window  went  up. 

The  united  efforts  of  Speid  and  his  four  companions 
succeeded  in  getting  the  coach  to  one  side  of  the  way, 
and  three  of  the  horses  were  tied  up,  its  shelter  between 
them  and  the  weather;  the  Glasgow  merchant  remained 
inside  while  they  moved  it.  The  rain  was  abating  and 
there  were  a  few  clear  patches  in  the  sky,  as,  with  the 
mail-bags  slung  round  him,  the  guard  mounted  the 
fourth  horse  and  prepared  to  ride  forward. 

"If  you  can  find  a  boy  called  Stirk  at  the  inn,"  said 
Gilbert,  "tell  him  to  wait  for  me  in  Blackport  till  morn- 
ing." And  he  put  some  money  in  the  man's  hand. 

The  guard  touched  his  cap  and  disappeared. 

It  was  a  long  night  to  Speid.     The  three  passengers 


284  THE  INTERLOPER 

built  themselves  a  shelter  with  luggage  and  rolled  them- 
selves in  what  wraps  and  rugs  they  had ;  not  one  of  them 
had  any  desire  to  share  the  inside  of  the  coach  with  its 
occupant.  The  ground  was  too  damp  to  allow  a  fire 
to  burn  and  what  wood  lay  at  the  roadside  was  dripping. 
In  a  few  hours  the  guard  returned  with  such  tools  as 
he  could  collect;  the  road  improved  further  on,  he  said, 
and  the  remaining  six  miles  of  the  stage  could  be  done 
at  a  walk  after  the  sun  rose.  He  had  seen  nothing  of 
Jimmy  Stirk.  He  and  the  coachman  joined  the  party 
in  the  shelter. 

Gilbert,  unsleeping,  lay  with  his  eyes  on  the  sky; 
though  he  had  been  much  tempted  to  go  on  with  the 
guard,  he  would  have  gained  little  by  doing  so;  his 
choice  of  a  night's  lodging  must  be  between  Blackport 
or  Monrummon,  and,  under  the  circumstances,  one 
place  was  intolerable  as  the  other. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AGNETA    ON   THE    UNEXPECTED 

GILBERT  was  wrong  in  supposing  he  would  arrive  in 
Scotland  on  the  very  heels  of  his  letter,  for  it  reached 
Granny  Stirk's  hands  three  days  before  the  night  which 
ended,  for  him,  on  Monrummon  Moor.  Jimmy,  who 
had  brought  it  from  Kaims  in  the  evening,  spelt  it  out 
successfully  by  the  firelight. 

The  old  woman  sat,  drowned  in  thought,  her  fiery 
eyes  on  the  flame ;  she  could  not  understand  why  Cecilia 
had  made  no  response  to  what  Captain  Somerville  had 
written,  for  she  had  seen  him  on  the  previous  day  and 
was  aware  that  no  word  had  come  from  Edinburgh. 
Though  she  knew  that  Barclay  had  carried  the  letter  to 
Fullarton,  she  had  no  suspicion  that  he  had  tampered 
with  it,  imagining  her  action  and  that  of  the  sailor 
unknown  to  anyone.  How  should  Barclay  guess  its 
contents?  Also,  she  had  no  notion  to  what  extent  he 
was  in  Fordyce's  confidence,  or  what  a  leading  part  he 
had  played  in  the  arrangement  of  the  marriage.  Instinct 
and  the  remembrance  of  his  visit  to  her  were  the  only 
grounds  for  the  distrust  with  which  she  looked  upon 
him. 

She  had  not  doubted  Cecilia's  sincerity  and  she  did 
not  doubt  it  now;  but,  unlike  Gilbert,  she  was  beginning 
to  doubt  her  courage.  She  was  in  this  state  of  mind 
when  she  heard  that  the  wedding  day  was  changed 
from  the  tenth  to  the  seventh  of  the  month;  Speid 
would  only  arrive  on  the  evening  before  the  ceremony. 
The  matter  had  gone  beyond  her  help,  and  she  could  not 

285 


286  THE  INTERLOPER 

imagine  what  the  upshot  would  be.  But,  whatever 
might  come  of  it,  she  was  determined  to  play  her  own 
part  to  the  end.  Early  to-morrow  morning  she  would 
send  Jimmy  to  Kaims  to  tell  the  sailor  of  the  news  she 
had  received,  and  Macquean  should  go,  later,  to  get  a 
few  provisions  for  Whanland;  she,  herself,  would  have 
a  field-day  in  the  laird's  bedroom  with  mops  and  dusters 
and  see  that  his  sheets  were  "put  to  the  fire." 

Meanwhile,  at  Fordyce  Castle,  events,  almost  equal 
to  a  revolutionary  movement  in  significance,  had  taken 
place.  Like  many  another  tyrant,  Lady  Fordyce,  once 
bearded,  began  to  lose  the  hold  which  custom  had  given 
her  over  the  souls  and  bodies  of  her  family.  Sir  Thomas 
had,  for  the  first  time,  established  another  point  of  view 
in  the  house,  and  its  inmates  were  now  pleased  and 
astonished  to  learn  that  they  survived.  That  kind  of 
knowledge  is  rarely  wasted.  One  result  of  the  new 
light  was  that  Agneta  was  allowed  to  accompany  Crau- 
ford  to  Edinburgh,  where  she  was  to  try  on  her  brides- 
maid's costume,  report  upon  Mary's,  and  make  acquaint- 
ance with  her  future  sister-in-law. 

The  sight  of  Cecilia  was  a  revelation  to  Agneta.  The 
hide-bound  standards  of  home  had  not  prepared  her  to 
meet  such  a  person  on  equal  terms  and  she  knew  herself 
unable  to  do  so  creditably;  the  remembrance  of  Mary's 
suggestion  that  they  might  "give  her  hints"  on  the 
doing  of  her  hair,  and  such-like  details,  made  her  feel 
inclined  to  gasp.  Cecilia  suggested  something  selected, 
complicated,  altogether  beyond  her  experience  of  life 
and  outside  her  conception  of  it.  Crauford,  to  whom 
this  was  evident,  looked  on  triumphantly. 

"Well?"  he  began,  as  they  returned  together  to  their 
lodging  in  George  Street. 

"She  is  quite  different  from  what  I  expected,  brother 
— quite  different." 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  so?"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  did — you  did;    but  I  did  not  understand.     No 


AGNETA  ON  THE  UNEXPECTED          287 

more  will  Mary  till  she  has  seen  her.  I  am  afraid  she  will 
astonish  Mama  dreadfully." 

Fordyce  chuckled.  The  thought  of  his  mother  had 
never  made  him  chuckle  before.  But  times  were 
changing. 

"I  shall  write  to  Mary  to-morrow,"  continued  Agneta. 
"Crauford,  I  can  quite  understand  about  the  gentleman 
who  went  to  Spain." 

At  this  her  brother's  smile  faded,  for  the  words  made 
him  think  of  the  gentleman  who  might  be  returning 
from  Spain.  As  soon  as  possible  he  must  address  himself 
to  the  task  before  him,  namely,  that  of  persuading  Cecilia 
to  make  the  wedding-day  a  fortnight  earlier. 

At  the  risk  of  wearying  the  reader,  who  has  followed 
this  history  through  letters,  fragments  of  letters,  receipts 
of  letters,  and  even  suppression  of  letters,  Agneta's 
somewhat  ungrammatical  sentiments  must  be  given. 

"Mv  DEAR  MARY"  (she  wrote), 

"I  do  not  know  what  Mama  will  say.  We  have 
arrived  safe  and  waited  upon  Cousin  Maitland  where 
Miss  Raeburn  is  staying.  She  is  not  at  all  like  what  we 
imagined.  You  said  we  could  perhaps  teach  her  how  to 
do  her  hair,  but  it  is  most  beautifully  done,  and  she  has 
a  lovely  tortoiseshell  comb  handsomer  than  Lady  Maria's. 
She  is  not  at  all  shy,  even  with  Crauford,  but  she  was 
most  obliging  and  polite  to  him  and  to  me  too.  Cousin 
Maitland  says  she  thinks  she  likes  her  better  than  any 
young  lady  she  ever  saw.  I  don't  know  what  Mama  will 
say,  because  I  am  quite  sure  Miss  Raeburn  will  not  be 
afraid  of  her,  for  she  looks  as  if  she  were  not  afraid  of 
anybody  or  cared  for  anybody  very  much,  not  even 
Crauford.  He  told  me  she  was  very  fond  of  flowers,  but 
I  think  he  must  be  mistaken,  for  he  brought  her  some 
roses  that  were  ever  so  expensive  at  this  time  of  the  year 
and  she  thanked  him  nicely  but  she  never  looked  at 
them  after  she  had  put  them  down.  Cousin  Maitland 


288  THE  INTERLOPER 

is  a  very  odd  person ;  her  chin  and  nose  nearly  meet  and 
she  wears  long  earrings  and  said  a  lot  of  clever  things  I 
did  not  understand.  She  has  an  enamel  snuff-box  with 
rather  a  shocking  picture  on  it.  It  is  very  nice  being 
on  a  journey  alone  and  ringing  the  bell  when  I  want  any- 
thing, but  Jane  forgot  to  bring  my  best  slippers,  which  is 
tiresome,  as  we  are  to  dine  with  Cousin  Maitland  to- 
morrow. Give  my  love  and  respects  to  our  father  and 
mother  and  also  from  Crauford.  I  send  my  love  to  you. 

"Your  affectionate  sister, 

"AGNETA  FORDYCE. 
"  P.S.— She  has  the  loveliest  feet." 

All  the  arguments  and  persuasions  which  Crauford 
could  bring  to  bear  on  his  bride  did  not  avail  to  shorten 
the  time  before  the  marriage  by  a  fortnight,  for  the  dress- 
makers at  work  upon  her  very  modest  trousseau  declared 
themselves  unable  to  finish  it  by  that  date,  and  Cecilia 
was  thankful  for  their  objections.  He  had  dressed  up 
some  bogey  of  family  convenience  which  he  held  up 
before  her,  but,  by  aid  of  its  ministrations,  he  was  only 
able  to  knock  off  three  days  from  the  interval  and  fix 
the  occasion  for  the  seventh  instead  of  the  tenth  of  April. 
He  wrote  to  Barclay,  apprising  him  of  the  change. 

When  the  time  arrived  by  which  some  result  of  Somer- 
ville's  letter  might  reasonably  be  expected,  the  lawyer 
was  constant  in  his  inquiries  at  the  mail  office.  As  no 
sign  came,  he  determined  to  drive  out  to  Whanland  and 
question  Macquean,  for  he  thought  that  if  Gilbert  con- 
templated a  sudden  return  the  man  in  charge  of  the 
house  would  scarcely  be  ignorant  of  it. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  preceding  Speid's  intended 
arrival  that  he  set  out  for  this  purpose,  and,  at  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  observed  the  person  he  wished  to  see 
approaching  with  the  vacillating  but  self-satisfied  gait 
peculiar  to  him.  Rather  to  his  surprise,  Macquean 
made  a  sign  to  the  coachman  to  stop. 


AGNETA  ON  THE  UNEXPECTED  289 

"Have  ye  heard  the  news?"  he  asked  abruptly,  his 
large  mouth  widening. 

"What  news?"  cried  the  lawyer,  leaning  far  out  of  his 
chaise. 

"The  Laird's  to  be  hame,  no  the  morn's  morn,  but  the 
morn  ahint  it." 

"Has  he  written?" 

"  Granny  got  a  letter  a  day  syne.  She  bad'  me  no  tell, 
but  a'  didna  mind  the  auld  witch.  A'  kent  fine  the  Laird 
wad  need  to  tell  ye." 

"Quite  right!"  exclaimed  Barclay,  with  fervour. 
"That  old  she-devil  is  beyond  endurance." 

A  descriptive  epithet  that  cannot  be  written  down 
broke  from  Maequean. 

"What  time  do  you  expect  Mr.  Speid,  late  or  early  ?" 

"  He'll  no  be  at  Blackport  or  aicht  o'clock  Friday  first, 
an*  gin  the  coach  is  late,  it'll  be  nine.  A'm  thinking  he'll 
likely  bide  a'  night  i'  the  toon  an'  come  awa'  hame  i'  the 
morn.  A'm  awa'  now  to  see  and  get  proveesions." 

The  lawyer  had  other  business  on  hand,  so,  after  a  few 
more  words  with  Maequean,  he  drove  on;  the  servant 
continued  his  way  into  Kaims. 

This  was  ill  news.  Barclay  had  played  Crauford's 
game  for  so  long  that  it  had  almost  become  his  own,  and 
he  felt  like  a  child  who  sees  signs  of  imminent  collapse 
in  the  sand-castle  which  has  stood  almost  to  the  turn  of 
the  tide.  Only  three  more  days  and  baffled,  probably, 
by  an  old  woman's  pestilent  interference  !  If  Speid  had 
left  Spain  in  such  a  hurry  it  was  not  likely  that  he  meant 
to  have  all  his  trouble  for  nothing,  and,  if  no  delay 
should  occur  on  his  road,  he  would  arrive  just  fifteen 
hours  too  early.  It  was  a  close  business. 

For  all  his  oiled  and  curled  appearance,  his  fat  hands 
and  his  servility,  there  was  something  of  the  man  of 
action  about  Barclay.  Also,  he  was  endlessly  vindictive. 
The  idea  of  Gilbert  triumphing  at  the  eleventh  hour 
was  as  bitter  as  gall,  and  he  resolved,  while  he  sat  looking 


29o  THE  INTERLOPER 

like  a  hairdresser's  image  in  the  chaise,  that  no  strong 
measure  he  could  invent  should  be  lacking  to  frustrate 
him.  As  far  as  Crauford  was  concerned  he  had  a  free 
hand  and  he  would  use  it  freely.  Suggestions  boiled  in 
his  brain.  To  delay  Speid  in  Blackport  on  the  night  he 
arrived  would  be  advantageous,  and  if  he  could  only 
delay  him  till  the  following  noon  all  would  be  well. 

He  ran  mentally  over  every  possibility.  Suppose,  as 
Macquean  had  said,  the  coach  should  not  be  up  to  time 
and  the  traveller  should  come  no  further  that  night,  he 
would  scarcely  start  for  home  before  nine  on  the  next 
day.  At  ten,  or  thereabouts,  he  would  reach  Whan- 
land,  and,  by  a  few  minutes  past  eleven,  Fordyce  would 
be  married  to  Cecilia.  Everything  fitted  in  so  nearly 
that,  assuming  that  it  should  arrive  late — as  it  usually 
did — the  slightest  delay  would  settle  the  matter. 

By  the  time  he  had  alighted  at  his  own  door  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  send  a  mounted  messenger  at  once 
to  Blackport,  and,  in  Fordyce's  name,  to  secure  every 
post-horse  to  be  had  at  the  two  posting-houses  in  the 
town.  The  pretext  should  be  the  conveyance  of  wedding 
spectators  to  Morphie ;  the  animals  should  be  brought  to 
Kaims  early  next  morning.  In  the  afternoon,  the 
bridegroom  was  to  arrive  as  his  guest,  with  his  best  man, 
and  he  would  tell  him  what  he  had  done.  His  approval 
was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

Should  the  coach  come  in  punctually,  or  should  Gil- 
bert hear,  in  Blackport,  that  the  wedding  was  to  take 
place  at  once,  his  plan  might  yet  miscarry.  The  chances 
were  almost  even,  he  told  himself;  there  were  other 
horses,  no  doubt,  which  could  be  begged,  borrowed,  or 
stolen  by  a  man  determined  to  get  forward,  but  there 
would  be  a  delay  in  finding  them  and  that  delay  might  be 
the  turning-point.  Macquean  had  not  informed  Barclay 
that  Jimmy  Stirk  was  to  meet  Gilbert,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  he  did  not  know  it  himself ;  Speid  had  asked 
Granny  to  say  nothing  to  any  person  of  his  coming,  so, 


AGNETA  ON  THE  UNEXPECTED          291 

though  obliged  to  tell  him  to  make  preparations  at  Whan- 
land,  she  had  entered  into  no  details.  She  had  men- 
tioned the  day  and  hour  he  was  expected  at  Blackport 
and  that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  CADGERS  TAKES  THE  ROAD 

THE  next  day  broke  cold  and  stormy  and  driving  rain 
sped  past  the  windows  of  the  Stirks*  cottage.  In  the 
morning  Jimmy  set  out,  having  decided  to  go  afoot  and 
to  return  with  Gilbert  in  whatever  vehicle  he  should 
accomplish  the  last  stage  of  his  way  home.  As  the  day 
went  on  the  old  woman's  restlessness  grew,  and,  by  after- 
noon, her  inaction,  while  so  much  was  pending,  grew 
intolerable  to  her.  She  opened  the  back  door  and 
looked  out  seaward  to  where  a  patch  of  ragged  light 
broke  the  flying  clouds.  This  deceitful  suggestion  of 
mending  weather  decided  her  on  the  action  for  which  she 
was  hankering.  To  Kaims  she  would  go.  Captain 
Somerville  might,  even  now,  have  received  some  word 
from  Cecilia,  and  in  any  case  the  sight  of  his  face  would 
soothe  her  agitated  mind.  Her  heart  was  so  deep  in 
what  was  going  on  that  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  her  own 
nerves  so  long  as  she  was  unable  to  act;  and  to-day 
there  was  not  even  her  grandson  to  distract  her  mind. 
The  man's  more  enviable  part  was  his. 

It  was  seldom,  now,  that  she  drove  herself,  and  it  was 
years  since  she  had  harnessed  a  horse*  She  wrapped 
her  body  in  her  thick,  gray  plaid,  pinning  it  tightly  round 
head  and  shoulders,  and  went  out  to  the  shed  where  Rob 
Roy  was  dozing  peacefully  in  the  straw,  in  false  expecta- 
tion of  a  holiday.  Almost  before  he  had  time  to  realise 
what  she  wanted,  she  got  him  on  his  legs,  pushed  the 
collar  over  his  astonished  face,  and  led  him  out  across 
the  windy  yard,  to  where  the  cart  stood  in  a  sheltered 

292 


293 

corner.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  turning  his  head 
toward  Kaims. 

The  rain  held  off  as  she  splashed  down  the  road,  and, 
at  the  bridge,  the  North  Lour  ran  hard  and  heavy  under 
her;  the  beeches  round  Whanland  House  were  swaying 
their  upper  branches  when  she  passed,  as  seaweeds  sway 
in  a  pool  at  the  in-running  tide.  She  drove  straight  to 
the  Black  Horse  in  the  High  Street,  for,  behind  the  inn- 
yard,  was  a  tumbledown  shanty,  where  carriers,  cadgers, 
and  such  of  the  lower  classes  as  went  on  wheels,  might 
stable  their  carts  when  they  came  to  the  town.  The 
grander  accommodation,  which  had  the  honour  of  har- 
bouring the  chaises  and  phaetons  of  the  gentry,  was  on 
the  inner  side  of  the  wall.  When  she  had  left  Rob  Roy 
she  walked  to  the  Inspector's  house  and  was  admitted. 
She  was  ushered  straight  into  the  Captain's  presence; 
he  sat  in  his  study,  dressed  for  the  road,  for  he  had 
duty  near  Garviekirk.  The  expression  he  wore  was  one 
unusual  to  him. 

"I  have  made  a  discovery,  Mrs.  Stirk,"  he  said, 
abruptly.  "The  letter  I  wrote  to  Miss  Raeburn  never 
reached  her.  She  has  not  received  it." 

Her  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  him  through;  he  turned 
his  face  away. 

"I  am  a  good  deal  distressed,"  he  continued — "I  did 
not  suppose  that — those  one  associated  with — did  such 
things." 

"It's  Barclay!"  exclaimed  Granny. 

"We  cannot  be  quite  certain,"  he  went  on,  "so  the 
less  we  say  about  it  the  better.  He  was  asked  to  carry 
it  to  Fullarton  and  I  have  reason  to  know  that  it  never 
reached  Miss  Raeburn.  I  have  spoken  quite  freely  to 
you;  as  you  have  identified  yourself  with  this  affair,  I 
felt  I  should  not  keep  anything  back  from  you.  I  am 
sick  at  heart,  Mrs.  Stirk— sick  at  heart." 

His  expression  was  blurred  by  a  dull  suffering. 

"Pegs!   ye   needna   fash   about    the   likes    o'    him, 


294  THE  INTERLOPER 

sir !  I  warrant  ye  it's  no  the  first  clortie*  job  he's 
done!" 

"It  is  painful,"  said  he. 

There  was  more  than  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  could 
fathom  in  the  honest  man's  trouble;  more  lying  on  his 
heart,  as  he  drove  away  down  the  street,  than  she,  look- 
ing after  him,  could  guess.  The  sordid  knowledge  of  his 
wife's  nature  had  been  with  him  for  years,  shut  behind 
bars  through  which  he  would  not  glance,  like  some 
ignoble  Caliban.  That  morning  he  had  been  forced  to 
look  the  hateful  thing  in  the  face. 

A  letter  had  come  to  Mrs.  Somerville  from  Cecilia, 
directing  her  to  the  private  entrance  at  Morphie  Kirk. 
"I  hope  Captain  Somerville  is  well,"  was  its  conclusion; 
"with  the  exception  of  a  note  of  congratulation  from  Mr. 
Barclay,  I  have  heard  nothing  of  anyone  at  Kaims  since 
I  left  Fullarton." 

Mrs.  Somerville  had  read  it  aloud,  stopping  suddenly 
in  the  middle  of  the  last  sentence,  remembering  Bar- 
clay's semi-jocular  suggestion  of  delaying  the  letter,  and 
turned  scarlet.  She  was  apt,  in  difficulties,  to  lose  her 
head. 

"I'm  sure  it  is  no  fault  of  Mr.  Barclay's!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "I  told  him  how  urgent  it  was." 

"What?''  exclaimed  the  Inspector,  turning  in  his 
chair. 

Then,  seeing  how  she  had  incriminated  herself,  she 
had  plunged  into  explanations.  The  door  had  been  ajar 
— she  had  been  unable  to  help  hearing  what  Mrs.  Stirk 
had  said  on  the  day  when  he  had  written  to  Miss  Rae- 
burn — the  words  had  forced  themselves  on  her.  It  was 
not  her  fault.  She  had  never  moved  from  where  he  had 
left  her  sitting  at  the  breakfast-table. 

Somerville  looked  squarely  at  his  wife.  The  door  had 
not  been  ajar,  for  he  had  fastened  it  carefully,  as  he 

*  Dirty. 


THE  QUEEN  TAKES  THE  ROAD     295 

always  did  before  hearing  private  business.  He  remem- 
bered doing  so,  perfectly. 

"It  was  not  ajar,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  she  had  rarely 
heard;  "it  was  shut.  And  it  is  impossible  to  hear 
between  the  two  rooms." 

"I  always  did  hate  that  old  woman!"  cried  Mrs. 
Somerville,  her  face  in  a  flame,  "and  why  you  ever  let 
her  into  the  house  I  never  did  know!  I'm  sure  if 
Lucilla  were  hefe  she  would  take  my  part.  And  now 
to  be  accused  of " 

"What  have  I  accused  you  of?"  asked  her  husband. 
"I  have  not  accused  you  yet.  But  I  will.  I  accuse  you 
of  telling  that  hound,  Barclay,  what  you  heard,  and,  if  I 
sit  here  till  to-morrow,  I  will  have  every  word  you  have 
betrayed." 

Piece  by  piece  he  dragged  from  her  her  treachery; 
evasions,  tears,  lies,  he  waded  through  them  all.  Furious 
and  frightened,  what  confidences  of  Barclay's  she  had, 
she  divulged  also.  At  the  end  he  had  risen  painfully 
and  left  the  room. 

The  sailor  was  a  hot-headed,  hot-hearted  man.  He 
had  no  proof  against  the  lawyer  and  he  knew  it ;  but  he 
believed  him  capable  of  anything  and  was  prepared  to 
maintain  his  belief. 

"You  may  tell  Barclay,"  he  said,  as  he  paused  at  the 
door,  "that  I  have  no  proof  against  him  but  my  own 
conviction.  If  he  can  prove  me  wrong  I  will  apologise 
humbly — publicly,  if  he  pleases.  But,  until  that  day, 
if  he  ventures  to  enter  my  house  while  I  can  stand,  I  will 
turn  him  out  of  it  with  my  cane." 

When  Granny  Stirk  had  done  a  few  matters  of  busi- 
ness in  Kaims,  she  went  down  the  side-street  to  the  back 
premises  of  the  Black  Horse.  Before  her,  a  figure 
battled  with  the  wind  that  rushed  down  the  tunnel  of 
houses,  and  as  he  turned  into  the  yard  gate  she  saw 
that  this  person  was  none  other  than  Barclay.  He 
went  in  without  observing  her,  and  called  to  a  man  who 


296  THE  INTERLOPER 

was  idling  among  the  few  vehicles  which  stood  empty 
about  the  place.  She  continued  her  way  round  the  out- 
side wall  to  the  spot  where  she  had  left  Rob  Roy,  and 
untied  the  rope  by  which  he  was  tethered.  Above,  a 
large  hole  in  the  stonework  let  out  a  strong  stable  smell 
from  the  row  of  dark  stalls  built  against  its  inner  face. 
The  occasional  movement  of  horses  mixed  with  the 
voices  of  two  people  who  were  walking  along  the  line  of 
animals  together. 

"Yon's  them,"  said  one  of  the  unseen  individuals,  as 
a  scraping  of  boots  on  the  flags  suggested  that  the  pair 
had  come  to  a  standstill  under  the  aperture. 

"Now,  how  many  are  there  exactly?"  inquired  the 
voice  of  Barclay. 

"That'll  be  sax  frae  the  Crown  an'  four  frae  the  Boni- 
ton  Arms — they've  just  got  the  four  in  now.  Them's 
the  twa  grays  at  the  end;  an'  other  twa's  up  yonder,  the 
brown,  an'  yon  brute  wi'  the  rat-tail." 

"Are  you  quite  certain  that  these  are  all  that  can  be 
had  ?  Mind  you,  I  want  every  single  beast  secured  that 
is  for  hire  in  Blackport." 

His  companion  made  a  small,  semi-contemptuous 
sound. 

"That  michtna  be  sae  easy,"  he  replied.  "Whiles 
there  may  be  a  naig  I  dinna  ken  i'  the  toun — what  are 
ye  wantin'  wi'  sic  a  lot,  sir?" 

His  tone  implied  more  of  the  practical  than  the  in- 
quisitive, but  the  lawyer  cut  him  short. 

"That's  my  affair,"  he  replied.  "My  order  is  plain 
enough,  surely.  I  want  every  horse  that  is  for  hire  in 
the  town  secured  and  brought  here — every  horse,  mind 
you.  And  by  eight  o'clock  to-night  they  must  be  out 
of  Blackport — here,  that  is." 

The  trace  which  Granny  was  hooking  slipped  through 
her  fingers,  and  she  stood,  open-mouthed,  while  the 
footsteps  of  the  speakers  died  away.  It  did  not  take  her 
a  moment  to  draw  the  right  inference ;  if  the  lawyer  had 


THE  QUEEN  TAKES  THE  ROAD    297 

mentioned  Fordyce's  name  she  might  not  have  undei- 
stood  so  easily  what  was  going  forward;  but  he  had 
spoken  as  though  the  order  had  emanated  from  himself, 
and  Granny,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  had  a  burning 
lamp  of  wrath  in  her  soul  which  illuminated  his  deed. 

It  was  almost  half-past  five,  and  in  less  than  three 
hours  Gilbert  would  arrive  at  Blackport  to  find  that 
there  was  no  available  means  of  getting  further.  She 
knew  him  well  enough  to  be  sure  he  would  start  on  foot, 
if  need  be,  so  soon  as  he  should  learn  from  Jimmy  of 
what  was  to  happen  on  the  morrow;  but,  meanwhile, 
here  was  Rob  Roy,  at  the  end  of  the  reins  she  held,  and 
what  belonged  to  the  Stirk  family  belonged  also  to  the 
Laird  of  Whanland  so  long  as  she  had  breath  to  say  so. 
She  got  into  her  place  and  drove  carefully  out  of  the  nar- 
row gate  into  the  street.  It  was  scarcely  time  for  the 
light  to  fail,  but  the  sky  was  dark  with  rain-cloud  and  the 
weather  rolling  in  from  a  wild  sea  that  was  booming  up 
the  coast.  She  cared  for  none  of  these  things;  inland, 
eight  miles  off,  lay  Blackport,  and,  in  less  than  an  hour, 
she  would  be  there  with  a  horse. 

Where  the  side-street  met  the  High  Street,  an  arch- 
way joined  the  inn  buildings  to  the  opposite  houses,  and, 
under  it,  she  observed  Barclay  taking  shelter  from  the 
sudden  squall  of  rain  which  had  come  up  in  the  last  few 
minutes.  Beneath  its  further  end,  across  the  way, 
stood  two  loafers,  one  of  whom  she  recognised  as  a 
cadger  whose  cart  was  now  unharnessed  in  the  yard. 
Though  his  days  in  the  trade  had  begun  long  after  her 
own  had  ended,  she  knew  something  about  him;  prin- 
cipally, that  rumour  connected  him  with  a  Blackport 
poaching  gang  which  had  been  active  in  the  preceding 
year.  He  looked  at  her  as  she  approached  and  sent  an 
obscene  word  to  meet  her,  but  she  neither  heard  nor 
heeded,  for  her  attention  was  set  on  the  lawyer  whom  she 
was  about  to  pass. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?  "  called  Barclay. 


298  THE  INTERLOPER 

Her  eyes  flamed. 

"Ah!  ye  deevil!"  she  cried,  "a*  heard  ye!  Look! 
Here's  a  horse  that'll  be  in  Blackport  the  nicht !" 

Before  she  was  through  the  arch  Barclay  realised  that 
she  must  have  been  near  him  in  the  yard.  By  what 
chance  she  had  understood  his  business  there  he  knew 
not — had  not  time  to  guess.  He  turned  livid. 

"Stop  her !"  he  shouted  to  the  two  men  as  he  made  a 
futile  dash  after  the  cart. 

The  cadger  on  the  opposite  pavement  sprang  forward. 

" Go  on  !"  roared  the  lawyer,  "go  on,  man  !  Stop  her  ! 
Stop  her!" 

Granny  struck  Rob  Roy  sharply  and  he  plunged  into 
his  collar.  The  cadger  sprang  at  his  head,  but  the  horse 
swerved,  and  his  hand  fell  on  the  rein  just  behind  the 
rings  of  the  pad.  There  was  a  curse  and  a  rattle;  like 
a  snake  the  whip-tong  curled  in  the  air  and  came  down 
across  his  face,  with  a  hissing  cut  that  Barclay  could  hear 
where  he  stood,  and,  as  the  man  fell  back,  his  hands  to 
his  eyes,  the  gallant  old  woman  swung  out  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  street. 

"  Go  on  !  Go  after  her !  Five  pounds  if  you  can  stop 
her!  Ten!"  yelled  Barclay. 

"Awa*  ye  go  and  get  yer  cairt !"  cried  the  friend  who 
had  been  standing  with  the  cadger. 

At  the  mention  of  money  the  man  took  his  hands 
from  his  face;  a  red  wale  lay  across  it  and  the  water 
poured  from  his  eyes. 

"  He's  got  a  cairt  yonder  i'  the  yaird  ! "  cried  the  friend 
again. 

"Quick  then!"  shouted  Barclay,  seizing  him.  "If 
you  stop  that  hell-cat  getting  to  Blackport  to-night  you 
shall  get  ten  pounds,  and  I'll  see  you  come  to  no  harm. 
Run ! " 

At  this  moment  Granny,  going  at  a  smart  trot,  turned 
to  look  back,  for  she  was  not  yet  out  of  sight ;  she  saw 
the  cadger  pushed  toward  the  inn  by  Barclay,  she  saw 


THE  QUEEN  TAKES  THE  ROAD    299 

him  run  back  under  the  arch,  and  she  understood.  She 
sat  down  in  her  place,  her  heel  against  the  footboard, 
and  let  the  lash  float  out  on  Rob  Roy's  shoulder.  She 
knew  the  value  of  a  good  start. 

Showers  of  mud  flew  behind  her  as  the  little .  horse's 
hoofs  smote  the  earth  in  the  fast,  steady  trot  to  which 
she  kept  him.  The  east  wind  almost  hurled  her  out  of 
her  seat  as  she  passed  the  fringe  of  the  town,  for  she  was 
going  north,  and  it  came  in  from  the  sea,  not  half  a  mile 
off,  with  a  violence  that  blew  Rob  Roy's  mane  stiffly  out 
from  his  neck.  At  the  further  side  of  Kaims  flowed  the 
South  Lour,  making  a  large  tidal  lake  west  of  it;  along 
the  north  side  of  this  estuary  the  Blackport  road  ran, 
straight,  but  for  certain  indecisive  bends;  practically 
level  for  eight  miles.  As  she  turned  along  it  and  found 
the  blast  at  her  back  she  increased  her  pace.  Not  far 
in  front  the  way  dipped,  and  a  sluggish  stream  which 
drained  the  fields  on  her  right  hand  ran  under  a  low, 
stone  bridge  into  the  marsh  which  edged  the  "Basin  of 
Kaims,"  as  the  semi-salt  lake  was  called.  The  wind 
had  whipped  the  water  into  small  waves,  for  it  was  high 
tide  and  the  swirl  almost  invaded  her  path ;  a  couple  of 
gulls,  tilted  sideways  on  outspread  wings,  were  driven 
over  her  head.  The  sound  of  the  crawling  water  was 
drowned  in  the  gale  which  was  growing  steadily.  She 
pressed  on,  the  horse  well  in  hand,  till  she  reached  the 
summit  of  the  rise  half  a  mile  ahead  and  pulled  up  for  a 
moment  in  the  shelter  of  a  broken  wall.  Turning,  she 
strained  her  eyes  into  the  dusk,  and,  remote  from  the 
undercurrent  of  the  water's  voice,  on  the  following  wind 
there  came  to  her  the  distant  beat  of  hoofs. 

She  was  old,  her  body's  strength  was  on  the  wane,  but 
the  fire  of  her  spirit  was  untouched,  as  it  would  be  until 
Death's  hand,  which  alone  could  destroy  it,  should  find 
her  out.  Though  she  knew  herself  face  to  face  with  a 
task  which  needed  more  than  the  force  she  could  bring 
to  it,  though  her  body  was  cold  in  the  rain  and  the  hands 


300  THE  INTERLOPER 

which  steered  her  were  aching,  her  heart  leaped  in  her 
as  she  pulled  Rob  Roy  together  and  cried  to  him  in  the 
wind.  The  Queen  of  the  Cadgers  was  on  the  road  again. 

O  faithful  hands  that  have  wrought  here;  that  have 
held  sword,  or  plough,  or  helm !  O  fighters,  with  souls 
rising  to  the  heavy  odds,  nerves  steadying  to  the  shock 
whose  force  you  dare,  unrecking  of  its  weight !  What 
will  you  do  in  the  eternity  when  there  will  be  no  cause 
to  fight  for,  no  Goliath  of  Gath,  twice  your  size,  to  sally 
forth  against  with  sling  and  stone?  In  that  paradise 
that  we  are  promised,  where  will  be  your  place?  We 
cannot  tell.  But,  if  there  be  a  just  God  who  made  your 
high  hearts,  He  will  answer  the  question  whose  solution 
is  not  for  us. 

The  next  three  miles  were  almost  level  and  she  drove 
on  steadily ;  she  had  seen  her  pursuer's  nag  in  the  Black 
Horse  yard,  a  hairy-heeled  bay  with  a  white  nose  who 
looked  as  if  he  had  already  travelled  some  distance. 
Rob  Roy  had  been  little  out  of  late  and  the  cart  was 
empty;  indeed,  it  was  light  enough  to  be  a  precarious 
seat  for  a  woman  of  her  age.  By  the  time  she  had  done 
half  her  journey  it  had  become  dark  enough  to  make 
caution  necessary,  for  few  country  travellers  carried 
lights  in  those  days,  and  she  was  on  the  highroad  which 
took  an  eastward  sweep  to  the  coast  between  Perth  and 
Aberdeen.  She  stopped  once  more  to  listen  and  give 
Rob  Roy  his  wind ;  for  the  last  half  mile  they  had  come 
up  a  gradual  ascent  whose  length  made  up  for  its  gentle 
slope.  He  did  not  seem  distressed  and  the  gale  had 
helped  him,  for  it  was  almost  strong  enough  behind  him 
to  blow  the  cart  forward  without  his  efforts. 

On  again,  this  time  a  little  faster;  the  solid  blackness 
of  the  fields  slid  by  and  she  passed  a  clump  of  trees,  creak- 
ing and  swaying  over  a  patch  of  light  which  she  knew  to 
be  a  mill-pond.  Three  miles  more,  and  she  might  climb 
down  from  her  place  to  rest  her  stiffened  limbs,  before 
the  Laird  should  be  due  and  she  should  go  to  the  door  of 


THE  QUEEN  TAKES  THE  ROAD    301 

the  Crown  to  wait  for  his  coming.  She  almost  won- 
dered whether  it  were  her  imagination  which  had  seen 
the  cadger  run  back  at  Barclay's  instigation,  whether 
she  had  dreamed  of  the  horse's  feet  pursuing  her  near 
the  Basin  of  Kaims.  She  let  Rob  Roy  walk. 

Her  hair  was  blowing  over  her  face  and  she  pushed 
back  her  soaking  plaid  to  twist  it  behind  her  ears.  In  a 
momentary  lull,  a  clatter  of  hoofs  broke  upon  her  and 
voices  answered  each  other,  shouting.  Either  her 
enemy  was  behind  with  some  companion  of  his  own  kid- 
ney, or  there  were  others  abroad  to-night  with  whom 
time  was  precious ;  she  could  hear  the  wheels  grind  on  a 
newly -mended  piece  of  road  she  had  crossed.  A  cottage, 
passed  in  blind  darkness,  suddenly  showed  a  lamp  across 
the  way,  and,  as  the  driver  behind  her  crossed  the  glar- 
ing stream  which  it  laid  over  his  path,  she  saw  the  hairy- 
heeled  bay's  white  nose  swing  into  the  strong  light  to  be 
swallowed  again  by  the  dark.  She  took  up  her  whip. 

Hitherto,  she  had  saved  her  horse,  but  now  that  there 
were  only  three  miles  to  be  covered  she  would  not  spare 
for  pace.  How  the  white-nosed  beast  had  crept  so  close 
she  could  not  imagine,  until  it  occurred  to  her  that  the 
evil  short  cut  taken  by  herself  on  a  memorable  occasion, 
years  ago,  must  have  served  his  driver  too.  She  laid  the 
whip  remorselessly  on  Rob  Roy. 

Fortunately  for  her  aching  bones,  the  road  improved 
with  its  proximity  to  the  town,  or  she  could  scarce  have 
kept  her  seat.  As  it  was,  she  could  not  see  the  stones 
and  irregularities  in  her  way,  and  it  might  well  be  that 
some  sudden  jerk  would  hurl  her  headlong  into  the  gap- 
ing dark.  But  she  dared  not  slacken  speed;  she  must 
elude  her  pursuer  before  reaching  the  first  outlying 
houses,  for,  were  her  haven  in  Blackport  discovered,  she 
knew  not  what  foul  play  he  might  set  afoot.  She  resolved 
that  she  would  not  leave  Rob  Roy  until  he  was  in  Gil- 
bert's hands,  could  she  but  get  the  cart  into  the  tumble- 
down premises  of  the  friend  whom  she  trusted,  and  for 


302  THE  INTERLOPER 

whose  little  backyard  behind  River  Street  she  deter- 
mined to  make.  Blackport  was  a  low  place,  and  her 
friend,  who  kept  a  small  provision-shop,  was  a  widow 
living  alone.  Suppose  she  should  be  discovered !  Sup- 
pose, after  all,  she  should  fail !  What  Barclay  had  said 
to  the  cadger  whose  wheels  she  could  now  hear  racing 
behind  she  did  not  know,  but  his  action  in  securing  the 
post-horses  and  in  sending  such  a  character  after  her 
showed  that  he  was  prepared  to  go  to  most  lengths  to 
frustrate  Speid.  She  had  known  of  men  who  lamed 
horses  when  it  suited  them ;  the  thought  of  what  might 
happen  made  her  set  her  teeth.  She  remembered  that 
there  was  a  long  knife  inside  the  cart,  used  by  her  grand- 
son for  cleaning  and  cutting  up  fish ;  if  she  could  reach 
her  destination  it  should  not  leave  her  hand;  and,  while 
Rob  Roy  had  a  rest  and  a  mouthful  in  the  hour  or  two 
she  might  have  to  wait  for  Gilbert,  her  friend  should  run 
to  the  Crown  and  tell  Jimmy  where  she  was  to  be  found. 
With  a  pang  she  renounced  the  joy  of  meeting  the  Laird; 
her  place  would  be  behind  the  locked  door  with  her  horse. 

Past  hedge  and  field  they  went,  by  gates  and  stone- 
heaps.  Her  head -was  whirling  and  she  was  growing 
exhausted.  She  could  no  more  hear  the  wheels  behind 
for  the  roaring  of  the  wind  and  the  rattle  of  her  own  cart. 
She  had  never  driven  behind  Rob  Roy  on  any  errand 
but  a  slow  one,  and  it  was  long  years  since  she  had  been 
supreme  on  the  road;  but  old  practice  told  her  that  it 
would  take  a  better  than  the  hairy-heeled  bay  to  have 
lived  with  them  for  the  first  two  miles.  A  crooked  tree 
that  stood  over  the  first  mile-stone  out  of  Blackport  was 
far  behind  them  and  the  gable  end  of  the  turnpike  cot- 
tage cut  the  sky  not  twenty  yards  ahead. 

She  had  forgotten  the  toll,  and,  for  one  moment,  her 
stout  heart  failed.  But  for  one  moment  only;  for  the 
gate  stood  open.  She  could  faintly  distinguish  the  white 
bars  thrust  back.  A  lantern  was  moving  slowly  toward 
them;  probably  some  vehicle  had  just  gone  by,  and  the 


THE  QUEEN  TAKES  THE  ROAD    303 

toll-keeper  was  about  to  close  them.  With  a  frantic 
effort,  she  leaned  forward  and  brought  the  whip  down 
with  all  her  strength  on  Rob  Roy's  straining  back. 
Their  rush  carried  them  between  the  posts,  just  before 
the  lantern-bearer,  from  whom  the  wind's  noise  had  con- 
cealed their  approach,  had  time  to  slam  the  gate,  shout- 
ing, behind  them. 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  her  pursuer  drove  up,  to  find 
the  swearing  toll-keeper  threatening  him  and  all  his  kind 
from  behind  the  closed  bars.  In  half  an  hour  Rob  Roy 
stood  in  a  rough  shed,  while  the  owner  of  it  was  hurrying 
through  the  wet  streets  to  the  Crown  with  a  message  to 
Jimmy.  Inside  its  locked  door,  leaning  her  aching  back 
against  the  wall,  sat  the  Queen  of  the  Cadgers,  fierce, 
worn,  vigilant;  with  a  long  knife  across  her  knee. 

And  Gilbert,  his  eyes  on  the  wind-tormented  sky,  lay 
fuming  in  the  shelter  of  the  disabled  coach  in  the  heart 
of  Monrummon  Moor. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MORPHIE    KIRK 

WHEN  the  morning  of  the  seventh  of  April  broke  over 
Speid  and  his  companions,  they  lashed  the  damaged  pole 
together  with  a  coil  of  rope  and  harnessed  the  wheelers. 
Progress  was  possible,  though  at  a  very  slow  pace,  and 
they  started  again,  the  guard  and  outside  passengers 
walking;  from  the  coach's  interior,  which  cradled  the 
slumbers  of  the  Glasgow  merchant,  there  came  no  sound. 

It  was  past  eight  when  they  crossed  the  South  Lour 
where  the  river  curls  round  Blackport  before  plunging 
into  the  Basin  of  Kaims  on  its  seaward  course;  it  was 
almost  nine  when  Gilbert  saw  Jimmy  Stirk's  anxious 
face  at  the  door  of  the  Crown. 

"Eh,  Laird, !  but  a'm  feared  ye're  ower  late  !"  was  the 
boy's  exclamation,  as  they  clasped  hands. 

"Come!  Come  in  here,"  said  Gilbert,  dragging  him 
into  a  room  near  the  doorway. 

There,  in  a  voice  lowered  by  reason  of  the  slattern  who 
was  on  her  knees  with  soap  and  pail,  Jimmy  gave  him  the 
history  of  the  last  three  days,  from  his  grandmother's 
receipt  of  his  letter  to  her  hurried  message  of  last  night. 

"She's  waitin'  ye  now  in  River  Street,"  he  concluded. 

Without  further  ado  they  went  out  of  the  house 
together. 

What  would  be  the  upshot  of  the  next  two  hours 
Speid  did  not  know  and  did  not  dare  to  think.  Cecilia's 
freedom  would  pass  with  their  passing.  Captain  Somer- 
ville  had  said  in.  his  letter  that  he  was  writing  to  tell  her 
he  had  summoned  him,  and  his  heart  stood  still  as  he 

3°4 


MORPHIE  KIRK  305 

reflected  that,  in  the  face  of  this,  she  had  hastened  her 
marriage  by  three  days.  He  was  puzzled,  dismayed,  for 
he  could  not  guess  the  full  depth  of  Barclay's  guilt,  and 
the  boy  beside  him  knew  no  more  from  his  grandmother's 
message  than  that  the  lawyer  had  cleared  Blackport  of 
all  available  horses.  To  appear  before  a  woman  who 
had  forgotten  him  on  her  wedding  morning,  only  to  see 
her  give  her  willing  hand  to  another  man — was  that  what 
he  had  come  across  Europe  to  do?  His  proud  heart 
sickened. 

Seeing  that  the  night  had  passed  unmolested,  Granny 
Stirk  had  fallen  at  daylight  into  an  exhausted  sleep;  it 
needed  Jimmy's  thunder  upon  the  door  to  awake  her  to 
the  fact  that  Gilbert  stood  without.  She  turned  the  key 
quickly. 

"  Whanland  !  Whanland  !  "  was  all  that  she  could  say 
as  he  entered.  Her  face  was  haggard  with  watching 
and  exertion. 

"Oh,  Granny!"  he  cried.  "You  have  almost  killed 
yourself  for  me  !  " 

"Aye,  but  a'm  no  deid  yet !"  exclaimed  the  old  woman. 
"  Eh,  Laird  !  but  it's  fine  to  see  ye.  A'm  sweer  to  let  ye 
gang,  but  ye  canna  loss  a  minute." 

Jimmy  was  harnessing  Rob  Roy. 

"  But,  Granny,  what  does  this  mean  ?  She  has  hurried 
her  wedding,  though  Captain  Somerville  told  her  I  would 
come.  What  can  I  do,  knowing  that?" 

"Do?  Ye'll  just  hae  to  rin.  Laird,  she  doesna  ken 
onything.  Yon  tod — yon  damned,  leein'  Barclay — he 
got  a  haud  o'  the  letter.  The  Captain  tell't  me  that 
himsel'.  Ye'll  need  to  drive." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Speid. 

The  sight  of  her  worn  face  and  the  knowledge  of  what 
she  had  done  for  him  smote  Gilbert  hard.  Though  time 
pressed,  he  would  not  consent  to  start  till  he  had  taken 
her  to  the  Crown  and  left  her  in  the  landlady's  care,  with 
an  order  for  fire,  food,  and  dry  clothing.  Then  he  tore 


3o6  THE  INTERLOPER 

out  of  the  door  and  down  the  street  to  the  spot  where 
Jimmy  awaited  him  with  the  cart.  The  boy's  brown, 
hard  face  cheered  him,  for  it  seemed  the  very  incarnation 
of  the  country  he  loved. 

The  world  which  lay  round  them  as  they  drove  out  of 
Blackport  was  a  new  one,  fresh,  chastened  by  the  scourg- 
ing of  the  storm.  The  sky  was  high,  blue  and  pale,  and 
there  was  a  scent  of  spring;  underfoot,  the  wet  ground 
glistened  and  the  young  finger  of  morning  light  touched 
trees  and  buildings  as  they  rose  from  an  under-world  of 
mist. 

When  we  look  on  the  dying  glory  of  the  evening,  and 
again,  on  the  spectacle  of  coming  day,  do  we  not  regard 
these  sights,  so  alike  in  colour  and  in  mystery,  with  an 
indefinable  difference  of  feeling?  The  reason  is  that 
sunset  reminds  us  of  Time  and  sunrise  of  Eternity. 

Though  sunrise  was  long  past,  the  remembrance  of  it 
was  still  abroad,  and  a  sense  of  conflict  ended  breathed 
over  the  ground  strewn  with  broken  boughs,  wreckage 
of  the  night.  Gilbert,  as  he  sat  by  his  companion  and 
felt  his  heart  outrunning  their  progress,  could  find  no 
share  in  this  suggestion.  All  cried  to  him  of  peace  when 
there  was  no  peace;  effort  was  before  him,  possibly 
failure. 

He  knew  that,  though  Cecilia  was  to  be  married  from 
Fullarton,  the  actual  wedding  would  take  place  at  Mor- 
phie,  according  to  her  own  desire.  Somerville  had  told 
him  so.  It  was  now  half-past  nine  and  Jimmy  was  press- 
ing Rob  Roy  to  his  utmost,  for  Fullarton  was  the  further 
of  the  two  places,  some  seven  miles  north  of  Kaims,  and 
the  horse  would  have  to  put  his  best  work  into  the  collar 
were  Speid  to  arrive  in  time  to  see  the  bride  before  she 
started  for  the  kirk. 

The  high  hope  and  determination  in  which  Gilbert  had 
left  Spain  had  changed  to  a  foreboding  that,  after  all, 
he  might  find  fate  too  strong;  but,  though  this  fear  lay, 
like  a  shadow,  over  him,  he  would  not  turn  from  his  wild 


MORPHIE  KIRK  307 

errand.  Till  the  ring  was  on  Cecilia's  finger  and  she  had 
agreed  in  the  face  of  minister  and  congregation  to  take 
Crauford  Fordyce  for  her  husband,  he  meant  to  persevere. 
He  smiled  gloomily  at  himself,  sitting  travel-stained  and 
muddy,  on  the  front  of  a  springless  cart,  with  what  was 
more  to  him  than  his  life  depending  on  the  speed  of  a 
cadger's  horse. 

Among  the  crowd  of  relations,  acquaintances,  and 
companions  alongside  of  which  a  man  begins  life,  Time 
and  Trouble,  like  a  pair  of  witch-doctors,  are  busy  with 
their  rites  and  dancers  and  magic  sticks  selecting  his 
friends ;  and  often  the-  identity  of  the  little  handful  they 
drag  from  the  throng  is  a  surprise.  For  Gilbert  they  had 
secured  a  wooden-legged  naval  captain,  a  sullen  young 
cadger,  and  a  retired  fishwife  with  gold  earrings.  As 
he  watched  the  ground  fly  past  the  wheels,  he  recognised 
that  the  dreadful  functionaries  had  gone  far  to  justify 
their  existence  by  the  choice  they  had  made. 

There  were  dark  marks  under  pad  and  breeching,  for 
the  sun  was  growing  strong,  and,  though  Jimmy  held  his 
horse  together  and  used  such  persuasive  address  as  he 
had  never  been  known  to  waste  upon  a  human  being,  he 
was  now  beginning  to  have  recourse  to  the  whip.  Speid 
realised  that  their  pace  was  gradually  flagging.  By  the 
time  they  had  done  half  the  journey  and  could  see,  from 
a  swelling  rise,  down  over  the  Morphie  woods,  it  was 
borne  in  on  him  that  Rob  Roy's  step  was  growing 
short.  He  made  brave  efforts  to  answer  to  the  lash, 
but  they  did  not  last,  and  the  sweat  had  begun  to 
run  round  his  drooping  ears.  The  two  friends  looked  at 
each  other. 

"Ma"  grannie  had  a  sair  drive  last  nicht,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Pull  up  for  a  moment  and  face  him  to  the  wind," 
cried  Speid,  jumping  down. 

With  handfuls  of  rush  torn  from  a  ditch  they  rubbed 
him  down,  neck,  loins,  and  legs,  and  turned  his  head  to 
what  breeze  was  moving.  His  eyes  stared,  and,  though 


308  THE  INTERLOPER 

he  was  close  to  the  green  fringe  of  grass  which  bordered 
the  roadside,  he  made  no  attempt  to  pick  at  it. 

The  hands  of  Gilbert's  watch  had  put  ten  o'clock 
behind  them  as  he  looked  over  the  far  stretch  to  Morphie 
and  Fullarton.  Jimmy,  whose  light  eyes  rested  in 
dogged  concern  on  the  horse's  heaving  sides,  put  his 
shoulder  under  the  shaft  to  ease  off  the  weight  of  the 
cart.  Away  beyond,  on  the  further  edge  of  the  wood, 
was  the  kirk;  even  now,  the  doors  were  probably  being 
opened  and  seats  dusted  for  the  coming  marriage. 

Speid  stood  summing  up  his  chances,  his  eyes  on  the 
spreading  landscape ;  he  was  attempting  an  impossibility 
in  trying  to  reach  Fullarton. 

"There  is  no  use  in  pushing  on  to  Fullarton,"  he  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  Rob  Roy's  mane,  "we  shall  only  break 
his  heart,  poor  little  brute.  I  am  going  to  leave  you 
here  and  get  across  country  to  the  kirk  on  my  own  feet. 
Here  is  some  money — go  to  the  nearest  farm  and  rest 
him;  feed  him  when  he'll  eat,  and  come  on  to  Whanland 
when  you  can.  Whatever  may  happen  this  morning,  I 
shall  be  there  in  the  afternoon." 

The  boy  nodded,  measuring  the  miles  silently  that  lay 
between  them  and  the  distant  kirk.  It  would  be  a  race, 
he  considered,  but  it  would  take  a  deal  to  beat  the  Laird 
of  Whanland. 

"Brides  is  aye  late,"  he  remarked  briefly. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  asked  Gilbert,  as  he  pulled  off 
his  overcoat  and  threw  it  into  the  cart. 

"Ma'  Grannie." 

Speid  vaulted  over  the  low  wall  beside  them  and  began 
to  descend  the  slope.  Half-way  down  it  he  heard  Jim- 
my's voice  crying  luck  to  him  and  saw  his  cap  lifted  in 
the  air. 

The  rain  of  the  previous  day  and  night  had  made  the 
ground  heavy,  and  he  soon  found  that  the  remaining 
time  would  just  serve  him  and  no  more.  He  ran  on  at  a 
steady  pace,  taking  a  straight  line  to  the  edge  of  the 


MORPHIE  KIRK  309 

woods;  most  of  the  fields  were  divided  by  stone  dykes 
and  those  obstacles  gave  him  no  trouble.  Sometimes 
he  slipped  in  wet  places ;  once  or  twice  he  was  hailed  by 
a  labourer  who  stopped  in  his  work  to  watch  the 
gentleman  original  enough  to  race  over  the  open 
landscape  for  no  apparent  reason.  But  he  took  no 
heed,  plodding  on. 

When  he  came  to  where  the  corner  of  the  woods  pro- 
truded, a  dark  triangle,  into  the  pasture  land,  he  struck 
across  it.  The  rain  had  made  the  pines  aromatic,  and  the 
strong,  clean  smell  refreshed  him  as  he  went  over  the 
elastic  bed  of  pine-needles  strewn  underfoot.  The 
undignified  white  bobtails  of  rabbits  disappeared,  right 
and  left,  among  the  stems  at  his  approach,  and  once  a 
roe-deer  fled  in  leaps  into  the  labyrinth  of  trunks. 

Before  emerging  again  into  the  open  he  paused  to  rest 
and  look  at  his  watch;  walking  and  running,  he  had 
come  well  and  more  quickly  than  he  had  supposed;  he 
thanked  heaven  for  the  sound  body  which  he  had  never 
allowed  idleness  to  make  inactive.  It  wanted  twenty- 
five  minutes  of  eleven,  and  he  had  covered  a  couple  of 
miles  in  the  quarter  of  an  hour  since  he  had  left  Jimmy. 
He  judged  himself  a  little  under  two  more  from  Morphie 
kirk.  The  boy's  unexpected  knowledge  of  the  habits  of 
brides  had  amused  him,  even  in  his  hurry,  and  he 
devoutly  hoped  it  might  prove  true. 

Standing  under  the  firs  and  pines,  he  realised  the 
demand  he  was  about  to  make  of  this  particular  bride. 
He  wondered  if  there  were  a  woman  in  the  world  bold 
enough  to  do  what  he  was  going  to  ask  Cecilia  to  do  for 
him.  He  was  going  to  stand  up  before  her  friends, 
before  the  bridegroom  and  his  relations,  the  guests  and 
the  onlookers,  and  ask  her  to  leave  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  promised  herself  for  a  lover  she  had  not  seen  for 
nearly  two  years;  one  who  had  not  so  much  as  an  hon- 
est name  to  give  her.  Would  she  do  it?  He  reflected, 
with  a  sigh,  that  Jimmy's  knowledge  would  scarce  tell 


THE  INTERLOPER 

him  that.  But,  at  the  same  time,  loving  her  as  he  loved 
her,  and  knowing  her  as  he  knew  her,  he  hoped. 

He  was  off  again,  leaping  out  over  a  ditch  circling  the 
skirts  of  the  wood ;  he  meant  to  follow  the  outline  of  the 
trees  till  he  should  come  to  a  track  which  he  knew  would 
lead  him  down  to  where  the  kirk  stood  under  a  sloping 
bank.  Many  a  time  he  had  looked,  from  the  further  side 
of  the  Lour,  at  the  homely  building  with  its  stone  belfry. 
It  had  no  beauty  but  that  of  plainness  and  would  not 
have  attracted  anyone  whose  motives  in  regarding  it 
were  quite  simple.  But,  for  him,  it  had  been  enchanted, 
as  common  places  are  enchanted  but  a  few  times  in  our 
lives;  and  now  he  was  to  face  the  turning-point  of  his 
existence  in  its  shadow. 

This  run  across  country  was  the  last  stage  of  a  journey 
begun  in  Spain  nearly  a  month  since.  It  had  come 
down  to  such  a  fine  measurement  of  time  as  would  have 
made  him  wonder,  had  he  been  capable  of  any  sensation 
but  the  breathless  desire  to  go  forward.  His  hair  was 
damp  upon  his  forehead  and  his  clothes  splashed  with 
mud  as  he  struck  into  the  foot-track  leading  from  the 
higher  ground  to  the  kirk.  The  way  went  through  a 
thicket  of  brier  and  whin,  and,  from  its  further  side,  came 
the  voices  and  the  rough  East-coast  accent  of  men  and 
women ;  he  supposed  that  a  certain  crowd  had  gathered 
to  see  the  bride  arrive  and  he  knew  that  he  was  in  time. 

It  was  less  than  ten  minutes  to  eleven  when  the 
assembled  spectators  saw  a  tall  man  emerge  from  the 
scrub  and  take  up  his  position  by  the  kirk  door.  Many 
recognised  him  and  wondered,  but  no  Whanland  people 
were  present,  and  no  one  accosted  him.  He  leaned  a 
few  minutes  against  the  wall;  then,  when  he  had  recov- 
ered breath,  he  walked  round  the  building  and  looked  in 
at  a  window.  Inside,  the  few  guests  were  seated,  among 
them  Barclay,  his  frilled  shirt  making  a  violent  spot  of 
white  in  the  gloom  of  the  kirk.  Not  far  from  him,  his 
back  to  the  light,  was  Crauford  Fordyce,  stiff  and  im- 


MORPHIE  KIRK  311 

maculate'in  his  satin  stock  and  claret  colour,  unconscious 
of  the  man  who  stood,  not  ten  yards  from  him,  at  the 
other  side  of  the  wall.  It  was  evident  from  their  bearing 
that,  by  this  hour,  the  minds  of  the  allies  were  at  rest. 
Gilbert  returned  to  the  door  and  stood  quietly  by  the 
threshold;  there  was  an  irony  in  the  situation  which 
appealed  to  him. 

While  he  had  raced  across  the  country,  Cecilia,  in  her 
room  at  Fullarton,  was  putting  on  her  wedding-gown. 
Agneta,  who  looked  upon  her  future  sister-in-law  as  a 
kind  of  illustrated  hand-book  to  life,  had  come  to  help 
her  to  fasten  her  veil.  One  of  the  house-maids,  a  scarlet- 
headed  wench  who  loved  Cecilia  dearly  and  whose  face 
was  swollen  with  tears  shed  for  her  departure,  stood  by 
with  a  tray  full  of  pins. 

"You  had  better  not  wait,  really,  Jessie,"  said  the 
bride  in  front  of  the  glass,  "  I  am  so  afraid  the  rest  of  the 
servants  will  start  without  you.  Miss  Fordyce  will  help 
me  I  am  sure.  Give  me  my  wreath  and  go  quickly." 

The  servant  took  up  her  hand  and  kissed  it  loudly; 
then  set  the  wreath  askew  on  her  hair  and  went  out,  a 
blubbering  whirl  of  emotion. 

"She  has  been  a  kind,  good  girl  to  me,"  said  Cecilia. 

"Your  hand  is  all  wet !"  exclaimed  Agneta,  to  whom 
such  a  scene  was  astonishing. 

Mary  and  Agneta  inhabited  a  room  together  and  many 
midnight  conversations  had  flowed  from  their  bed- 
curtains  in  the  last  few  nights.  Agneta  had  gone  com- 
pletely over  to  the  enemy,  but  her  sister,  who,  though 
gentler  in  character,  was  less  able  to  free  herself  from  the 
traditions  in  which  she  had  been  brought  up,  hung  back, 
terrified,  from  an  opinion  formed  alone.  Outwardly,  she 
was  abrupt,  and  Cecilia  and  she  had  made  small  progress 
in  their  acquaintance. 

Robert  Fullarton  and  his  brother-in-law  were  ready 
and  waiting  downstairs  and  two  carriages  stood  outside 
on  the  gravel  sweep.  Sir  Thomas  and  his  daughters 


3i2  THE  INTERLOPER 

were  to  go  in  one  of  these,  and  Robert,  who  was  to  give 
Cecilia  away,  would  accompany  her  in  the  other. 

Agneta  and  Mary  had  started  when  Cecilia  stood  alone 
in  front  of  her  image  in  the  glass ;  she  held  up  her  veil 
and  looked  into  the  reflected  face.  It  was  the  last  time 
she  would  see  Cecilia  Raeburn,  and,  with  a  kind  of 
curiosity,  she  regarded  the  outer  shell  of  the  woman, 
who,  it  seemed  to  her,  had  no  identity  left.  The  Cecilia 
who  had  grown  up  at  Morphie  was  dead — as  dead  as  that 
companion  with  whom  she  had  shared  the  old  house. 
Between  the  parted  friends  there  was  this  momentous 
difference:  while  one  was  at  rest,  the  other  had  still  to 
carry  that  picture  in  the  mirror  as  bravely  as  she  could 
through  the  world,  till  the  long  day's  work  should  roll 
by  and  the  two  should  meet.  She  thought  of  that  dark 
morning  at  Morphie  and  of  her  aunt's  dying  face  against 
Fullarton's  shoulder,  and  told  herself  that,  were  the 
moment  to  return,  she  would  not  do  differently.  She 
was  glad  to  remember  that,  had  Gilbert  Speid  come 
back,  he  would  have  cast  no  shadow  between  them ;  the 
knowledge  seemed  to  consecrate  the  gleam  of  happiness 
she  had  known  with  him  so  briefly.  But  it  was  hard 
that,  when  the  path  by  which  they  might  have  reached 
each  other  had  been  smoothed  at  so  terrible  a  cost,  the 
way  had  been  empty.  She  was  thinking  of  the  time 
when  two  pairs  of  eyes  had  met  in  a  looking-glass  and 
she  had  plastered  his  cut  cheek  in  the  candlelight. 
After  to-day  she  must  put  such  remembrances  from  her. 
She  dropped  her  veil  and  turned  away,  for  Fullarton's 
voice  was  calling  to  her  to  come  down. 

While  she  sat  beside  him  in  the  carriage,  looking  out, 
her  hands  were  pressed  together  in  her  lap.  The  rain- 
washed  world  was  so  beautiful,  and,  between  the  woods 
touched  with  spring,  the  North  Lour  ran  full.  The 
lights  lying  on  field  and  hill  seemed  to  smile.  As  they 
passed  Morphie  House  she  kept  her  face  turned  from  it ; 
she  could  not  trifle  with  her  strength.  She  was  thank- 


MORPHIE  KIRK  313 

ful  that  they  would  not  be  near  the  coast  where  she  could 
hear  the  sea-sound. 

As  the  carriage  turned  from  the  highroad  into  a 
smaller  one  leading  up  to  the  kirk,  Captain  Somerville's 
hooded  phaeton  approached  from  Kaims  and  dropped 
behind,  following.  The  sailor,  who  sat  in  the  front  seat 
by  the  driver,  was  alone,  and  Cecilia's  eyes  met  his  as 
they  drew  near.  She  leaned  forward,  smiling;  it  did 
her  good  to  see  him.  Mrs.  Somerville  had  declined  to 
appear;  she  was  not  well  enough  to  go  out,  she  said,  and 
it  seemed,  to  look  at  her  face,  as  though  this  reason  were 
a  good  one.  She  had  scarcely  slept  and  her  eyes  were 
red  with  angry  weeping.  Since  the  preceding  morning, 
when  the  Inspector  had  discovered  what  part  she  had 
played,  the  two  had  not  spoken,  and  she  felt  herself  un- 
able to  face  Barclay  in  his  presence.  After  the  wedding 
the  men  must  inevitably  meet;  she  could  not  imagine 
what  her  husband  might  do  or  say,  or  what  would 
happen  when  the  lawyer  should  discover  that  she  had 
betrayed  him.  She  retired  to  the  sanctuary  of  her  bed- 
room and  sent  a  message  downstairs  at  the  last  moment, 
desiring  the  Captain  to  make  her  excuses  to  Miss  Rae- 
burn  and  tell  her  that  she  had  too  bad  a  cold  to  be  able 
to  leave  the  house. 

The  sailor's  heart  was  heavy  as  he  went  and  the 
glimpse  of  Cecilia  which  he  had  caught  made  it  no  lighter. 
He  had  tried  to  save  her  and  failed.  All  yesterday, 
since  his  dreadful  discovery,  he  had  debated  whether  or 
no  he  ought  to  go  to  Fullarton,  see  her,  and  tell  her  that 
he  had  tried  to  bring  Gilbert  home;  that  he  would,  in  all 
probability,  arrive  a  few  hours  before  her  marriage.  He 
turned  the  question  over  and  over  in  his  mind.  The 
conclusion  he  came  to  was  that,  things  having  gone  so 
far,  he  had  better  hold  his  peace.  She  could  not  draw 
back  now,  and,  being  forced  to  go  on,  the  knowledge 
that  her  lover  would  have  been  in  time,  had  she  not 
hastened  her  marriage,  might  haunt  her  all  her  life.  If 


3i4  THE  INTERLOPER 

Speid  arrived  at  the  hour  he  was  expected  he  would  hear 
from  Jimmy  Stirk  of  the  wedding.  Should  he  be  deter- 
mined to  act,  he  would  do  so  without  his — Somerville's 
— intervention;  and,  should  he  see  fit  to  accept  what 
now  seemed  the  inevitable,  he  would,  no  doubt,  have 
the  sense  to  leave  Whanland  quietly.  He  would  go 
there  himself,  on  his  return  from  Morphie  Kirk,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  him  and  inducing  him  to  start  before 
anyone  should  see  him,  and  before  Cecilia  should  learn 
how  near  to  her  he  had  been.  It  might  well  be  that  she 
would  never  know  it,  for  she  was  to  leave  Fullarton,  with 
her  husband,  at  two  o'clock,  for  Perth.  They  were  to 
go  south  immediately. 

The  sailor  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  relieved  or  dis- 
appointed to  find  that,  apparently,  Speid  had  made  no 
sign.  Cecilia  was  there  to  play  her  part ;  no  doubt,  like 
many  another,  she  would  come  to  play  it  contentedly. 
With  all  his  heart  he  pitied  Gilbert.  Meanwhile,  as  the 
carriages  neared  their  destination,  he  could  see  the  ever- 
green arch  which  some  Morphie  labourers  had  put  up 
over  the  entrance  at  which  the  bride  would  alight. 

The  kirk  could  not  be  seen  from  the  gate  of  the  en- 
closure in  which  it  stood,  for  the  path  took  a  turn  round 
some  thick  bushes.  A  low  dyke  of  unpointed  stone 
girdled  it  and  kept  at  bay  the  broom  and  whins  clothing 
the  hillock.  When  his  phaeton  stopped,  Somerville  got 
out,  and  was  in  time  to  greet  the  bride  as  Fullarton 
handed  her  out  of  the  carriage ;  he  did  not  fail  to  notice 
the  tremor  of  the  fingers  he  touched.  He  went  on  and 
slipped  into  a  group  of  bystanders  surrounding  the  door 
without  observing  the  figure  which  stood  near  the  kirk 
wall,  a  little  apart. 

A  movement  went  through  the  group  as  Fullarton 
appeared  by  the  tall  bushes  leading  Cecilia.  While  they 
advanced  a  man  walked  forward  and  stood  in  the  way ;  a 
man  with  splashed  clothes  and  high  boots,  brown  with 
the  soil;  the  wet  hair  was  dark  upon  his  forehead  and 


MORPHIE  KIRK  3i5 

his  eyes  looked  straight  before  him  to  where  the  bride 
came,  brave  and  pale,  under  her  green  wreath.  She  saw 
him  and  stopped.  Her  hand  slipped  from  Fullarton's 
arm. 

Unheeding  Robert's  exclamation,  he  sprang  toward 
her,  his  eyes  burning. 

"Cecilia,"  he  said,  almost  under  his  breath,  "am  I  too 
late?" 

The  slight  commotion  caused  by  this  unexpected  inci- 
dent had  brought  Barclay  to  the  doorway;  Crauford's 
face  could  be  seen  behind  his  shoulder. 

"Great  Heavens!  Here's  Speid !"  exclaimed  the 
lawyer,  seizing  his  friend. 

Fordyce  moved  irresolutely,  longing  to  rush  forward, 
but  aware  that  custom  decreed  he  should  await  his 
bride's  entrance  in  the  kirk;  he  scarcely  realised  the 
import  of  what  had  happened  outside  its  walls  while  he 
stood,  unconscious,  between  them.  Barclay  ran  out  to 
the  little  group  round  which  the  onlookers  were  collect- 
ing, and  he  followed,  unable  to  sacrifice  his  annoyance  to 
his  sense  of  what  was  expected.  Not  for  a  moment  did 
he  believe  that  decency  could  be  outraged  by  anything 
more  than  an  interruption.  In  the  background  stood 
Mary  and  Agneta,  aghast  under  their  pink-rosetted 
bonnets. 

"May  I  ask  what  you  have  come  here  for,  sir?"  he 
inquired,  approaching  Gilbert. 

But  Speid's  back  was  turned,  for  he  was  looking  at 
Cecilia. 

"Come!"  cried  Fullarton,  sternly,  "come,  Cecilia!  I 
cannot  permit  this.  Stand  aside,  Mr.  Speid,  if  you 
please." 

"Cecilia,  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  urged  Gilbert, 
standing  before  her,  as  though  he  would  bar  her  progress 
to  the  kirk  door.  "  I  have  come  back  for  you." 

She  looked  round  and  saw  the  steady  eyes  of  Captain 
Somerville  fixed  upon  her.  He  had  come  close  and  was 


316  THE  INTERLOPER 

at  her  side,  his  stout  figure  drawn  up,  his  wooden  leg 
planted  firmly  on  the  gravel;  there  was  in  his  counte- 
nance a  mighty  loyalty. 

"Gilbert,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice, 
"thank  God  you  have  come."  Then  she  faced  the 
bridegroom.  "I  cannot  go  on  with  this,  Mr.  Fordyce," 
she  said. 

"But  it  is  too  late !"  cried  Robert.  "There  shall  be 
no  more  of  this  trifling.  You  are  engaged  to  my  nephew 
and  you  must  fulfil  your  engagement.  I  am  here  to  see 
that  you  do." 

"I  will  not,"  she  replied.  "Forgive  me,  sir — forgive 
me,  I  beg  of  you  !  I  know  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you 
to  stand  by  me  !" 

"I  shall  not  do  so,  certainly,"  exclaimed  Robert, 
angrily. 

She  glanced  round,  desperate.  Captain  Somerville 
was  holding  out  his  arm. 

"My  phaeton  is  outside,  Miss  Raeburn,"  he  said,  "and 
you  will  do  me  the  favour  to  come  home  with  me. 
Speid,"  he  added,  "am  I  doing  right?" 

But  Gilbert  could  scarcely  answer.  A  great  glory  had 
dawned  in  his  face. 


EPILOGUE 

HERE,  so  far  as  the  author's  choice  is  concerned,  this 
history  closes.  The  man  and  woman,  forced  apart  by 
powers  greater  than  themselves,  have  come  to  their  own 
again  and  stand  at  the  portal  of  a  new  life,  at  the  door  of 
a  structure  built  from  the  wreck  of  bygone  things.  Those 
who  have  watched  them  may  augur  for  themselves  what 
the  future  is  like  to  be  for  them,  and  shut  the  book, 
assured  that  the  record  of  these  two,  for  whom  life  held 
so  much  more  than  they  could  see  with  their  eyes  and 
touch  with  their  hands,  will  not  fall  below  its  mark. 

But,  to  that  vast  and  ingenuous  multitude  which  has 
taste  for  the  dotted  "i"  and  the  crossed  "t,"  there 
remains  yet  a  word  to  be  added. 

Cecilia  stayed  under  Captain  Somerville's  roof  while 
the  disturbing  events  round  her  quieted  themselves,  and 
while  Gilbert,  who  received  a  challenge  from  Fordyce, 
settled  the  score.  Even  she  scarcely  felt  anxious,  as  she 
awaited  the  result  of  their  meeting,  for  Speid  chose  the 
sword  as  a  weapon  and  had  assured  her  he  would  deal  as 
tenderly  with  Crauford  as  though  he  were  a  new-born 
babe.  This  he  proceeded  to  do,  so  long  as  it  amused  him, 
after  which  he  scratched  him  deftly  on  the  inside  of  the 
wrist,  and  the  seconds,  who  could  scarce  restrain  their 
smiles,  agreed  that  honour  was  satisfied. 

And  so  the  jasmine-trees  were  planted  at  Whanland, 
the  ideal  horse  bought;  the  necklace  with  the  emerald 
drop  found  the  resting-place  Gilbert  had  desired  for  it. 
Granny  Stirk,  accompanied  by  Jimmy,  went  to  the  sec- 
ond wedding  which  was  attempted  in  Morphie  Kirk,  and 
which,  this  time,  was  celebrated  without  interruption; 


3i8  THE  INTERLOPER 

she  drove  there  in  a  carriage,  and  the  bridegroom,  who 
was  standing  by  the  pulpit  as  she  arrived,  left  his  place 
and  conducted  her  on  his  arm  to  a  seat  near  the  Miss 
Robertsons. 

Crauford  married  Lady  Maria  Milwright,  who  there- 
fore thought  herself  exalted  among  women,  and  was,  in 
reality,  much  too  good  for  him.  Barclay  constantly 
frequented  his  roof,  making  Lady  Maria  very  happy  by 
his  expressed  admiration  for  her  husband ;  he  might  have 
boasted  of  the  intimacy  to  the  end  of  his  life  had  he  not 
covertly  courted  Agneta  and  been  taken  in  the  act  by 
Lady  Fordyce.  Family  dignity  expelled  the  offender, 
and  the  only  person  who  was  sorry  for  him  was  kind 
Lady  Maria,  who  rose  at  an  unconscionable  hour  to 
preside  over  his  breakfast  before  he  departed,  forever, 
amid  shame  and  luggage. 

Agneta  eloped  with  an  English  clergyman  and  ended 
her  days  as  a  bishop's  wife,  too  much  occupied  with  her 
position  to  have  a  thought  for  that  palpitating  world  of 
romance  and  desperation  upon  which  she  had  once  cast 
such  covetous  eyes. 

On  the  death  of  Captain  Somerville,  a  few  years  later, 
the  lawyer  took  to  himself  his  widow,  who  had  contrived, 
by  much  lying  and  some  luck,  to  conceal  from  him  her 
part  in  the  betrayal  of  his  schemes.  She  looked  as  much 
out  of  the  window  and  dispensed  as  much  hospitality 
under  her  new  name,  and  never  failed  to  disparage  Mrs. 
Speid  of  Whanland  whenever  that  much-admired  lady 
appeared  either  in  the  street  or  the  conversation.  These 
were  the  only  places  in  which  she  met  her,  for  her  hus- 
band had  long  ceased  to  be  connected,  either  by  busi- 
ness or  acquaintance,  with  the  family. 

THE    END 


A     000  092  870     5 


